


Darling, do you remember what you did?

by Baryshnikov



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Attempted Murder, Blood Play, Blood and Gore, Coercion, Halloween, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Knifeplay, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Obsession, Past Attempted Murder, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Revenge, Sexual Content, Stabbing, Tom doesn't get boundaries, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-01-04 01:21:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 24,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21189188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov
Summary: Tom had been waiting to do this.Waiting for a very,verylong time.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The vague Halloween spirit got the best of me and I wrote this instead of updating, sorry about that.

Five years. 

That was how long he had been waiting to do this.

Five fucking years. 

But tonight, was the night. This was finally the day he was going to get Harry back for what he had done to him.

For such a meaningful day, Tom had half-expected it to be more dramatic, but unfortunately breaking into Harry’s apartment had been far less exciting than he’d envisaged, and certainly far too _easy_. The sweet old lady in the apartment next door was so kind to let him in when he’d explained he was Harry’s cousin and _really_ needed to the spare key.

It had seemed such an obvious ruse that he nearly hadn’t tried it.

But she’d just smiled so warmly and told him he didn’t need to be that discreet, she wouldn’t judge.

He’d smiled at that, as sweet as saccharine, and come into her apartment. He’d even tried a piece of her lemon drizzle cake served with a cup of Lady Grey, which was lovely, and probably a far, _far_ nicer welcome than he was going to get from Harry. 

So, Tom indulged her. 

She never got many visitors, and she talked a lot, and one of her cats was eyeing him suspiciously for the entire visit. But Tom was still charming, that mask was old now, and so meticulously decorated that no one through it. So, he talked back, complimented her wallpaper, and praised her cakes, and even admired her cat, and in return, she chatted about the weather, about politics, even about Harry. 

As though Tom didn’t already know _everything_ about him. 

She was so lovely that Tom left her in exactly the same state as he found her, after all, if he was going to rekindle some amicability in his and Harry’s relationship, it was probably best not to kill off Harry’s neighbours just yet. 

He’d wait at least a week. 

Inside Harry’s apartment, it was dark; the light switch not where he’d expected it to be, and for a brief second Tom felt his heartbeat pick up. A faint fear, however small, that he’d misread the situation and had stumbled straight into something nasty. 

But after a few more steps and little more fumbling, he knew he hadn’t. 

Harry’s apartment was just poorly fucking designed. 

Going around other people’s houses had always fascinated Tom, particularly when said people were not around. For when people know they have guests coming, they prepare a spectacle. They clean each room with mops and brushes and polish. Whilst they think they are scrubbing their house down to its bones, what they are really doing is coating it in a thick glaze of assumptions. 

They are constructing the reality they want people to see. 

It is as if they are going to church, where they hold their partner’s hand, and they wear their best clothes, all in the pathetic attempt to hide their sins from God. 

Homes were the same. 

So, the best time to get to know someone is to look around their home when they are not expecting you, and even better when they are not even there themselves. Like that, you can see who they truly are. Whether they are clean or messy, whether they are particular or careless, whether they like the other people who fill their lives, or whether they despise them.

On the scale of homes Tom had been in, Harry’s apartment was – tolerable. If Tom _had_ to describe its features, he would have said it was devoid of any; a starkness hung about it, as though bare walls and beige furniture could achieve the anonymity that Harry so craved. As though, by buying the most boring colours in the world, he could assimilate himself with them, and blend into the background of humanity. 

It was sweet, really.

That he thought he could hide. 

As Tom walked around, as few lights on as necessary, he ran his fingers over the worktops and placed his hands on the desk. The place was so empty, he was honestly surprised that his fingers were not sheened with dust and spun up with spider’s webs. It was like looking around a display piece with few additional home comforts. But there was another feeling too, strung through the very atmosphere of the apartment, as thick and heady as if there were a gas leak.

That, almost palpable sensation, was that Harry had done his utmost to keep Tom out of this apartment, and not merely physically, though the five locks of the door would keep most ordinary people out. 

_Shame Tom wasn’t ordinary._

But it was rest of it, that was so _telling_. For not only was there nothing of value here, but there was certainly an absence of all the things Tom liked. The furnishings that were not neutral, were yellow because Tom had always expressly _disliked_ yellow. For the same reason, he suspected, all the woods were pale pine and frankly hideous. Even as he meticulously searched through each and every cupboard in the kitchen, the only cutlery Harry had here, was the ones with the plastic handles that he knew Tom hated for their lack of class.

Along a similar vein, the books on the shelves were trashy novels, that barely deserved to be called novels at all; detective thrillers and soppy romances that either had the happiest of endings or the angstiest. Likewise, the music was modern and tasteless, there was only white wine on the rack, and coffee in the tins, and there was only one, minuscule, mirror in the entire apartment. 

All in all, it certainly looked like Harry was doing his best to keep him compartmentalised.

Firmly _outside_ of this new life he was living. 

Though, it hardly looked like living. 

And Tom genuinely doubted whether there _was_ a day that went by _without_ Harry checking over his shoulder again and again and again and wondering, just when he’d see that familiar shadow at the end of the street. 

Because Harry must have known, that Tom wasn’t going to give up until he’d found him again.

They had surely spent long enough together for Harry to realise that, no matter how far he tried to run, or how anonymous he became, Tom would always find him eventually, just so he could give him _exactly_ what was due.


	2. Chapter 2

Tom had arrived at three in the afternoon on a Thursday, a bit earlier perhaps, given Harry wouldn’t finish work until six, and wouldn’t be home until seven, but you can never be _too_ prepared for this sort of things. And, anyway, he’d wanted to have ample opportunity to go through every, single, drawer and cupboard and hidden compartment that he could find. 

Of course, he didn’t expect to find anything… of note. 

For someone so insistent on personal security, Harry was strangely pacifistic. 

Well, he _had_ been until the incident. 

The incident that had led to five fucking years of waiting for this moment of, what could, rather crudely, be described as revenge. Though, if Tom was honest with himself, it had been more like one year recovering, three years seething, and then, one year of actual planning on doing something about it.

Tom thought about it as he went, more meticulously, through the rooms, starting with the dining room.

It had started with attempting to find Harry, and that had been _easier_ than Tom was expecting. Not _easy_ by any stretch of the imagination, just easier. He honestly, at least, assumed Harry would leave the country, even if it was to just head over to Wales or some, equally depressing place.

But Harry hadn’t. 

He’d only come down to London, as though Tom wouldn’t notice another face in the nearly nine million already here.

Tom sighed as he opened yet another empty drawer. 

This was the first, and only time in his life, he had actually been grateful for that man’s stubbornness. After all, it would have been much harder to find him in Europe or America with their wide landscapes and free borders. England, or specifically, London, was a far narrower raffle basket to search through. 

He shut the drawer impatiently. There really was very little here at all, which made the thing that caught Tom’s eye, all the more suspicious. Over on the dining table, just behind him, was a plant. How he hadn’t seen it when he’d first come in was a mystery, but he was seeing it now. 

A delicate plant, tall with almost garish pink flowers. As Tom got closer to it, he could see it wasn’t just any plant, but a phalaenopsis, or as people who weren’t as pretentious as Malfoy, a moth orchid. 

Tom approached it, slowly, before feeling its stem and leaves with the tips of his fingers. They were supple and real, as opposed to the decent looking fakes most people had, which was curious because Harry couldn’t keep anything alive to save his life, and it’s not a skill you suddenly learn, which meant…

He swallowed. 

There was no point getting ahead of himself. Although, when he turned to the living room, which was hardly turning at all given the open-plan nature of this entire apartment; he saw another fucking orchid sitting on the windowsill. This time an Oncidium, all speckled and dripping with pretty yellow flowers.

Now, one orchid could be played off as the naïve present of someone with too much optimism in Harry’s ability _not_ to kill plants. But two… that meant something _entirely_ different. 

Really, Tom should have expected it; there had, after all, been rumours of someone else, coming and going at indecent times of the day, not often enough to worry about, just as there had been times when Harry hadn’t come homes as expected. It had been five years, and Tom could hardly blame him when he himself had certainly not spent those five years abstaining.

But still, it was an intriguing development.

One he was very much going to bring up when Harry finally got here. 

Tom continued to stand in front of the orchid, running the tips of his nails over the petals and wondering what it would take to make them all fall off. This particular window faced outward onto the street and emphasised the growing gloom like a prophetic shadow hanging across the sky. 

He could see all the people arriving him from the station; little droves of them like ants marching up the streets to catch the bus, or a taxi, or the bikes. He wouldn’t have been able to spot Harry from here, but time was pressing on, and he needed to get ready. 

It was, after all, a reunion of sorts.

And Tom was not one to ignore the opportunity to make a dramatic entrance.


	3. Chapter 3

Tom sat on the armchair in front of the door from the hall to the living-come-dining room. He’d be the first thing Harry saw when he turned the light on, which was exactly how it should be. He was, after all, Harry’s beginning and he would be, assuming nothing went explicitly wrong, Harry’s end as well.

That, and he _really_ wanted to see the look on Harry’s face.

His pretty little face. 

Tom sipped at the glass of wine he’d poured himself; the white Harry owned had never been his favourite, always too crisp on his tongue, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Besides, wine brought class to a moment, a distinct _gravity_ that this entire affair deserved. 

For, if there was one thing Tom had _always_ liked, it was the weighty feeling of power rolling off his shoulders.

That gorgeous sense of control that wound itself around his bones and right through every muscle. The only time Tom could remember _not_ being in control of a situation was during the _incident_, and something like that was never happening again. He was older now, more mature, less inclined to impulse, and _far_ more aware of how to get what he wanted. 

And Harry had always liked watching him get what he wanted. 

Liked it _a lot_ if his memory served him correctly. 

Thinking of Harry, he was late. 

Tom checked his watch again; it was hard to see the hands in the dark, but not impossible. Currently, they said fifteen minutes past seven. Not drastically late, and not enough yet to actually worry, but certainly enough to start tapping his spare hand on the arm of the chair. 

Just tapping and tapping and _tapping_ like he could drum a hole right into the – whatever unsophisticated polyester fibre cover this frankly was.

It certainly felt – icky beneath his fingertips. 

Cheap.

At twenty past Tom finally heard the sound of the key in the first door of the apartment. With it turning, he took a deep breath and continued to wait. Though he couldn’t help the smile that snaked onto his mouth like a spider when she realises a hapless insect has wandered into her web. 

The sound of the catches and deadbolts being locked behind Harry rebounded through the silence.

Click. 

Click.

Click.

Click.

Click. 

They sealed Harry’s fate, one annoying click at a time. Even if Harry wanted, and Tom sincerely hoped he wouldn’t once he’d heard him out, to leave, there was no way he could get all five of those locks undone before Tom caught up with him. 

It was a safety oversight, really. 

Maybe he would mention it later. 

But for now, Tom swallowed and continued to listen to the sound of shuffling in the hallway. The noise of a coat coming off, followed by the muffled complaining, always spoken by those who live alone, always to themselves, always about the current state of British transport, and the Tube, and the lack of consideration by at least one person per journey. 

Without really meaning to, Tom shifted himself again, legs uncrossing and then crossing again; unable to contain the excitement curling up through his stomach and digging itself into his lungs like an infection. His shoulders subconsciously spreading back and his left hand dropping to smooth at his jeans. They hadn’t been his first choice, but if things got… messy later; well, it was better to ruin one pair of jeans than a whole suit. 

Still oblivious Harry sighed as he opened the second door; the shaft of light not quite reaching Tom’s toes, giving him the perfect opportunity to watch as Harry fumbled for his own light switch. Clearly, he hadn’t been living here _that_ long. And still, he was _blissfully_ unaware of who was hidden in the shadows. 

Tom closed his eyes for a moment and waited for the inevitable flash of the light. 

It was no good to be blinded, even for a second. 

It came. 

Tom opened his eyes. “Hello, Harry,” he said with a smile, “long time, no see, isn’t it?”

Harry nearly jumped out of his skin and very nearly put his hand through the glass of the door. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on how you looked at it, Harry’s hand didn’t break the glass; instead, it just hit it in a way that definitely _looked_ painful.  
“Jesus fucking Christ, Tom, how did you get in here!?”

How he’d missed hearing that voice. 

How he’d missed looking at him. Sure, Tom had seen him in the last three months of planning this, nearly every day. But nothing compared to having Harry in the flesh for his eyes, and his eyes’ alone, personal consumption.

Harry had ditched his uniform, which was a little bit of a shame, Tom would have loved to execute this evening with Harry all dressed up as a police sergeant. But, apparently, that would have to wait for another time. 

Tom just smiled at him, making sure to dip his eyes over every inch. “Now, that’s not a very polite welcome, is it?” he said, continuing to smile even as he took a long, slow sip of his wine, tipping the glass up unnecessarily to make sure Harry knew whose it was. Though he still kept half an eye on Harry’s non-injured hand, which was staying firmly on the handle of the door. 

“How the fuck did you get in?” Harry repeated, apparently not in the mood for chit-chat. 

Rude. 

Tom pouted a little.

“Your lovely neighbour let me in; she thought I was your boyfriend,” he said matter-of-factly, but still watching Harry ever so carefully. It was curious how he flinched when he said _boyfriend_, as though Harry was embarrassed by that, in Tom’s opinion, very satisfying period of his life. 

But at the same time, Harry’s face went even paler than before, and his grip on the door handle tightened until Tom could see the white of his knuckles.  
“You didn’t?” Harry said, the nervous panic distastefully prominent in his tone. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Tom, tell me you didn’t?!” 

“And what exactly do you think I did?” said Tom innocently, as he examined the non-existent dirt beneath his nails, while he _artfully_ uncrossed his legs again.

“You fucking killed her, didn’t you?”

Tom smiled form the corner of his mouth, all languid and lazy, “would I do such a thing, Harry?” he said with mock offence laced between every syllable. Putting it like that just sounded so… crude, not to mention, it made it sound like he had a history of killing helpful old women.

He didn’t. 

But Harry still had the _audacity_ to glare blue murder at him. 

Tom rolled his eyes; this was really turning out to be a lot of work.  
“Oh, don’t worry yourself; she’s alive… for now. I didn’t, after all, come all this way to dispose of old ladies,” he said; smiling as he ran his hand down the length of his thigh.

Harry said nothing, only pinned himself harder against the door, as though he were trying to melt through it. Though, Tom saw how Harry’s eyes watched the roll of his fingers, and how he wet his lips while his hand continued to grip on the handle. 

“Rather, I came here to see you,” Tom continued, abruptly standing up and depositing the wine glass on the low table to the right.

“Well, I don’t want to see you!” spat back Harry. 

Always so _prickly_. 

“That’s not very nice, Harry,” Tom murmured as he took a step forward, “not when I had to put _considerable_ effort into finding you.”

He wasn’t close enough to be physically intimidating, but certainly, enough to remind Harry he could touch him if he wanted to. Just reach out and wrap his fingers around his neck, not that Tom wanted to do that today. No, he had far more _interesting_ things on his mind for tonight. 

Harry swallowed and continued to look him in the eye, taking in as much of Tom’s face, as Tom was taking in of his. And, clearly thinking he was being discreet, Harry began to push down on the door handle.

Ready to make a run for it, how sweet. 

But before he could, Tom took a sharp step forward and grabbed Harry’s wrist. He was surprisingly warm for someone who’d just been outside in what was rapidly approaching winter, not that Tom was complaining, it was just odd.

Harry looked up at him, jaw clenched and eyes definitely reflecting the cold outside. Tom had almost forgotten just how good he was to look at this close up; fucking good enough to eat. Five years suddenly felt like an agonisingly long time.

Tom swallowed down whatever feelings he was having, and instead ran his tongue over his lip; unable to stop himself smiling as Harry’s pupils followed the movement. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Harry.”


	4. Chapter 4

They stayed there a second too long; Tom unwilling to let go of Harry, and Harry, apparently, unwilling to let go of the door handle. Not that Tom was complaining. This close up he could feel how Harry breathed, that soft inhale and exhale tinged, rather than smothered, in panic. If he leaned in just a little closer then he could have felt Harry’s heart, knocking against his chest like a bird against glass. 

Though Tom doubted he was scared, if anything, he’d probably been half-expecting this moment every, single, day for the last five years. 

Tom hoped it didn’t disappoint. 

He didn’t have time to focus on what was coming, though, because Harry was decidedly in the present, glaring at him again. His features pinched in a way that was almost cute. Five years ago, Tom would have murmured that with his mouth grazing the helix of Harry’s ear, and a smile on his face as he watched Harry squirm and pretend that he didn’t like getting compliments.

He was always a terrible liar. 

But it wasn’t five years ago anymore, and things had moved on. Though as Tom felt the heat of Harry’s skin and the throbbing of his pulse beneath his fingers, he couldn’t help but wonder if he could turn the clock right back. Start again at the moment just before it had all spiralled out of control like a sycamore seed spinning to the ground.

Those thoughts were interrupted though by Harry, never content to be quiet for an extended period of time. 

Always restless. 

“And why, the fuck, shouldn’t I do whatever I want in my own home?” he said, the twang of annoyance heavy in the syllables. 

Tom raised an eyebrow and gripped his wrist tight enough to leave behind a handprint because that was somehow more intimate than brushing Harry’s hair out of his eyes and stroking a finger down his neck to feel the pulsating of his carotid artery.

“Because,” he said slowly, “we haven’t had dinner yet, Harry.” Tom kept his tone soft, sweet; Harry would recognise the threat behind the words, regardless, so there was no point adding acid to the glaze that coated them.

“You made dinner?” 

He sounded suspicious 

And dumb.

Although most people would have been, honestly, a little surprised that Harry hadn’t smelled what was obviously cooking in the kitchen, Tom had lived with him, he knew Harry never been the most observant person in the world. Once, Tom remembered he’d had leftover blood streaked across his palm and smudged onto his knuckles; mostly dried but it was still stark against his skin. 

Harry hadn’t noticed.

And it wasn’t like he hadn’t seen Tom’s hands that day; he’d looked right at them, even wound his fingers around them, but he hadn’t noticed anything. Tom had concluded then that Harry was either very oblivious or very tolerant; he’d found out the next week that it was oblivious. 

Harry was looking down at Tom’s hands now. Cleary debating with himself the benefits and the drawbacks of every option available. From trying to punch his way out of this like he always did, to the continuous flicking of his pupils to the window behind him.

They both knew he wouldn’t survive a jump from this height. 

“Come on,” Tom said, still quiet, still careful, still firmly on the side of seductive. After all, there was no point spooking him any more than necessary, and he couldn’t do the thing he most wanted to do right now. 

Touching came later. 

But, to be extra courteous, Tom did loosen his grip of Harry’s wrist. “Come one,” he repeated, “you must be hungry by now.”

Tom genuinely suspected Harry was going to draw this out. That they might be forced to stand a few inches apart, squeezed _indecently_ against the door for quite a while, until he dropped the hero’s act and conceded defeat for once in his life.

Always being the hero was a little _grating_ on the nerves. 

Tom had never liked being challenged in any meaningful way. He was happy for others to scrap around at his feet; to claw and bite at each other in order to amuse themselves, but if one got a little brave, a little too conceited for its own good. 

Well, he wasn’t one to hesitate. 

Fortunately, they didn’t have to draw it out.

For, in the silence broken only by quiet breaths, Harry’s stomach growled; loud enough for him to clench at his jaw, and flush like a peony in May, and even twist his spine a little like that might hide the sound. 

It didn’t. 

“Well, I think that answers the question, doesn’t it?” Tom murmured, unable to stop the spread of his smile. There was always some syrupy sweetness in knowing the human part of everyone was ultimately their undoing. That, programmed into their very DNA, were these profound weaknesses for the very… basest of desires. 

He released Harry’s wrist just as Harry let go of the handle.

Tom smiled, too many teeth, not enough warmth; all strung out like a washing line, a touch too wide to be comfortable, and let his hand drift down to the small of Harry’s back, because, whether Harry liked it or not, he had resigned himself to his fate.


	5. Chapter 5

“I don’t need to be guided around my own fucking apartment, thanks,” Harry hissed at him, teeth all gnashing in that _adorable_ way. 

“Really? I didn’t realise you used the kitchen enough to know where it was,” Tom quipped back, his hand still resting on the lower vertebrae of Harry’s spine. After all, he couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t try and make a run for it again. Harry was distinctly persistent, even with hopeless causes.

“I do use the kitchen,” Harry said, a trail of ice tracking between the consonants like a frozen river between the mountains. 

So, _obviously_, he _didn’t_ use the kitchen.

“You use the microwave,” Tom said as they entered said kitchen, which was reached straight from the dining room portion of the open space; quite conveniently build, really, even if it was just as ugly as the rest of this apartment. 

“I know it’s the _only_ thing you’ve ever used,” Tom added as he nudged Harry ahead of him. There was no reason to say it aloud, but he wanted to, just to remind Harry _how much_ he knew about him. How, he could run, half-way across the fucking world, and Tom would still find him; he’d still _know_ everything about him, and there was nothing Harry could do about it. 

It made Tom smile; the victory of knowing he had him trapped in the stickiest of webs. 

But for now, there were more pressing things to consider. A momentary lapse in the illusion of sophistication to accommodate Harry’s, less than magnificent, kitchen. The defining feature was its size: small, basic, but functional. A small stove, microwave, no dishwasher, small fridge-freezer Enough for one person, maybe the occasional second. 

Keeping half an eye on Harry, Tom stepped towards the oven. 

Though, he shouldn’t have to worry too much, given he’d already moved all the… dangerous implements, including the knives, somewhere less… prominent. After all, it was a particularly sharp steak knife that had got them into this mess in the first place, and he’d be damned to make that mistake a second time around. 

Harry was less innocent than he looked. 

And for that fact alone, he was certainly not going to see those knives unless they were firmly in Tom’s, more than capable, hands. Which, if this night went as planned, might be sooner than Harry would like. 

Harry, for once was being good, standing still across the room. Although, the specks of his pupils continued to roam for heavy implements and sharp corners that might be to his advantage.

Pity he wouldn’t find any.

Instead of watching him more, Tom took the pair of oven gloves resting on the worktop. They, much like everything else here, were an obnoxious shade of yellow with black polka dots which were harmful enough to the eyes that the designer should have been arrested.

Maybe even executed.

Though, at the same time, there was something so… domestic about oven gloves; old-fashioned in the right sort of way, and Tom knew he caught Harry’s eyes watching him. Probably remembering the same moment as he was. That time, nearly seven years ago, when Harry had been sitting on the countertop and the glow of the sunset had burned the tips of his hair, and he'd caused Tom to burn a perfectly good croque-monsieur because he had wrapped his legs around his waist and refused to let go. 

It was a sweet memory. 

Sentimental. 

But no amount of sentimentality was going to wipe away the memories of that _delightful_ incident. 

Tom was not one for forgiving betrayal easily. If he did, he wouldn’t have been in Harry’s kitchen _five_ years later, thinking of all the things he was going to do to him. For now, though, he had to focus, there would be a time for letting go, and wouldn’t be for another hour at least. 

Tom swallowed and crouched down in front of the oven.

Before he’d met Harry, Tom had never considered himself a particularly spectacular cook, it was just something he did, something he thought _everyone_ did. Then he met Harry. That man could not cook; not successfully, and it was an abomination to let him try. He was the sort of person that could burn cereal or overcook noodles, both notions entirely inconceivable to anyone remotely acquainted with a kitchen. 

So, it had hardly been a surprise when he’d been through the cupboard earlier and found next to nothing useful. In fact, the only staple ingredients he’d found were a pot of salt, a half-full jar of Worcestershire sauce that he frankly didn’t want to know what Harry used for, and a bag of potatoes that had sprouted so much it looked like The day of the Triffids.

Needless to say, Tom had been shopping. 

And Harry had better enjoy what he bought.


	6. Chapter 6

They were sitting opposite on the table; each at a narrow end, each watching the other. Their faces were cut by the shadows of the light, Tom’s couldn’t help the theatrics of having only the dining table lights shining above them. That cold, white light slicing through his face as a diamond-edged saw, slices through marble.

He knew he looked good.

Faultless. 

The antithesis to Harry’s own image. Across the table, he sat and at he stared at Tom. His eyes never leaving, only boring into him, trying to dig down beneath the surface to find the rot he’d convinced himself was there. 

But there was no rot under Tom’s skin. 

Because perfection does not decay. 

So, he watched and smiled and admired how, behind Harry’s gaze, the cogs were whirring, so loud they were almost audible. Despite _everything_ he was still looking for a way out of this, the opportunity to escape the inevitable. 

Maybe he should have thought about it before he did what he did. 

Perhaps it was good that they were just over four feet apart, separated by a small spread. In front of Harry, the rice, in front of Tom, the roast vegetables, and between the dish that had turned out surprisingly well for Harry’s extremely limited kitchen. But pomegranate lamb was hardly a difficult dish, just a very good one.

The impeccable combination of sweet and tangy, sharp on the tongue but never enough to cut right through it. Not to mention the feeling of sophistication it exuded, sticky on the fork and piquant against your lips; the weight of Greek mythology on your shoulders. 

It simply was a _very_ nice dish. 

Harry swallowed as Tom leaned over the table, still on edge; like Tom would kill him any second. But Tom just rolled his eyes, the very idea of slaughtering someone during was distasteful, after all, how was he supposed to enjoy eating if there was a corpse staring at him. 

That was what Harry always got wrong, the distinction between savagery and cruelty. Tom _might_, if pressed, have classed himself as cruel, but he wasn’t feral. If you want to get by amongst normal people, you have to learn to emulate them, become them if necessary and bury yourself beneath layer upon layer of domestication.

So, no, Tom wasn’t going butcher him here. 

Rather, Tom watched Harry, as he ran his fingers over his cutlery. It wasn’t the same as Tom’s, whereas Tom had pointed fork and steak knife, Harry had a blunt fork and no knife at all. He didn’t _technically_ need one, and if he didn’t need it, he wasn’t getting it. 

Not with his track record around sharp objects. 

He continued to touch the fork and the stem of his wine glass, glowering at the red wine, as Tom cut the meat; digging his knife into the heart of the lamb shoulder. The sound it made was almost viscous, this slurred groan followed by the clink of the knife hitting the tray below. 

Would Harry sound the same?

Tom shook his head and pulled the knife all the way out, streaking it with sauce, before pushing it back in. It parted easily, as it should, the remnants of the sticky sauce seeping down between the slices and coalescing with meat juices. 

“This was our final meal together, remember?” Tom said absently, dishing out a slice onto Harry’s plate before offering him a spoon to dish out the bowl of rice. Harry took both but stayed explicitly silent as he began to scoop said rice into his plate; piling it into a small hemisphere. 

Tom didn’t blame for keeping quiet, after all, it had been Harry’s actions that had ruined a perfectly good evening. 

That didn’t mean Tom was willing to let it go though. He did, after all, have a bone to pick.   
“Hard to believe,” he said slowly, as he sat back in his chair and stirred his rice, mixing it in with the sauce, “that two hours later I was bleeding out at a bus stop, and you were on the last train to Edinburgh, hmm?”

His tone was light, a nice contrast to the syrupy air, thick with presumption and apprehension. There were five years of resentment currently suspended between them, and it coated everything like spiderwebs. 

Silence. 

“You changed the rice,” said Harry eventually. 

A casual misdirection that fooled neither of them, but Tom might as well indulge him for the moment, given that Harry would be, hopefully, indulging him _very_ soon.

“Fresh chilli,” Tom said carefully, scraping rice onto his own fork and eating it slowly, “it offsets the sweetness well I think; before…” he paused, trying to remember how he used to make it, “…well, it was always a little – stodgy, if you recall?”

“It’s very good,” Harry murmured, for a moment, apparently forgetting his anger for the sake of some decent food. It was probably the first time he had something homecooked in several weeks, just the thought of those ready-made meals made Tom’s skin crawl.

“I’ll give you the recipe if you want,” Tom paused, “but perhaps it’s better if I give it to your boyfriend?”

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” Harry snapped. 

In the sharp silence that followed, both their eyes fell on the orchid, placed centre-stage on the table. A lovely reminder. Even in this cold light, the pink was vivid, practically burning, like lithium in a flame test. The sort of bright obnoxious pink that was both offensive to the eyes, and to the palate. 

But Tom would let it slide this time, even if it was an offensively obvious lie. If Harry was lying, there was a reason, and those were always fun to drag out from between people’s teeth. So, he ran a hand through his hair and went back to eating, as though they were friends, and this was something they did every week. 

Harry continued to glare though. “You’re still sleeping with Malfoy, I suppose?” he said; a touch too curt to have been entirely… _innocent_ with his frustration. 

Tom paused, before looking up and smiling. 

There was something so sweet about the set of Harry’s jaw, and the glare spread all over his eyes. But he wasn’t going to rise to it. Instead, he sat back and swirled his wine, the red glinting and looking more like blood the longer he watched; he’d had to go shopping anyway and the bottle of sweet Mourvèdre was exactly what this dish had needed. 

Slowly, Tom let his thoughts turned to Malfoy, he hadn’t thought about him for months, but he supposed that he had been a fun bit of… entertainment, particularly through the summer. Good looking, when he kept his mouth shut, and wealthy enough to pay for the type of rendezvous Tom had found he liked. There was a gorgeous novelty in being taken around the world simply because someone was hooked on the taste of your mouth.

In some ways, he missed having monied hands that would give him whatever he wanted, just because _he_ wanted it. But, then again, if he _really_ needed it, Malfoy’s bank account was only one mildly provocative text away.

But there was a more… pressing question in the air. 

“Not anymore, actually, not for a year or so,” Tom said, which was, strangely enough, the truth. Rarely did he like to use such explicit truths, but Harry had always dragged them out of his mouth more than anyone else.   
“But,” he said pausing to take a bite, “the more… imperative question is, how would _you_ know that we were even together, Harry? We haven’t spoken in five years, and you don’t exactly travel in Malfoy’s circles, do you?”

Harry flushed, his fork actually stopping halfway to his mouth. He swallowed. And that pretty blush spread further when he realised Tom must have already comprehended his mistake. 

Harry’s mouth was turning into quite the ally. 

To couldn’t help smiling with his tongue on the edge of his teeth. “Oh, I get it,” he said, shifting himself forward, “you’ve been conducting some _inquiries_ of your own, haven’t you?” he finished, taking another drink from his glass, and using this silence time to swirl it over his tongue.

_So_ much better than white. 

Without looking over to Harry again, Tom cut off another piece of meat and began to chew it. He swallowed ever so slowly, revelling in the way Harry’s eyes followed his throat.   
“Well, you could, at least, have the courtesy to share how you found me,” he said, keeping his eyes on Harry’s, trying to make out the colours, even when they were too far away for that to be remotely possible. 

“I recognised you online.”

“Where?” Tom asked. For there were _very_ limited locations that _any_ information about him was readily available. That was how he liked it, with the veil of anonymity heavy, and only the occasional picture of curated spontaneity. Enough to pique someone’s interest, but never enough to sate them. 

Harry swallowed.

“Your work.”

_Interesting._

“And why were _you_ looking at law firms, Harry? Unless…” he let the words hang unspoken between them for long enough that the silence became uncomfortable. Long enough that they both knew Tom had worked his little secret stalking habit. 

“Unless you were _looking_ for me, of course,” he finished. The victory infused it the words undeniably warm in his mouth, smooth and sweet and spicy as his wine. Finding out that Harry was still thinking about him was perhaps more satisfying than even the thought of marring him.

Tom swallowed, the beginning of a new plan starting to swell at the back of his head.

“No!” said Harry, entirely too sharp and too loud, his whole body pulled taunt. Awkward, in its dictionary form displayed shamefully right before Tom’s eyes. Every limb strung tight, and the growing panic obvious even from this distance. Harry was beginning to unravel.

It was priceless to see his denial. 

Tom wasn’t modest enough to _not_ take it as a compliment. After all, he knew he was desirable, it was etched into every angle, and every line, and every fucking inch of him. People wanted whatever it was that slinked under his skin; the looks, the confidence, the control. They wanted him because power dripped from every word he spoke, and there was an intensity in his eyes that stripped people right down to their bones. 

And Harry was no different, even after all this time.

How _shameful_.

Thinking of Harry, Tom flicked his eyes up to the other end of the table. Harry was sitting perfectly still, but his eyes were roaming, scrambling over every gloomed wall, and all over the table. Although, the more that Tom looked, the less still Harry did. A voltage was inside him, a form of adrenaline building and building. All it needed was a little push to get things going. 

Tom licked his lips.

“You know, you’ve always been a bad liar, Harry.”

As if connected to electrical wire Harry jumped up, his chair knocking back. He hit the light switch. The cold lights above them went out and they were enveloped in a black as dark as the void. A murkiness that licked at their skin and hid them in plain sight. 

Tom couldn’t help but laugh. 

There was nowhere could go without alerting him. There was nothing he could use that would be remotely overpowering. But there was just no _helping_ some people. 

Slowly, Tom stood up. He gripped the steak knife hard between his palm and his fingers, the wood already feeling warm. In the back of his skull, he knew how _good_ this moment looked; how the yellow light of the kitchen, that he had negligently left on, must be casting such a gorgeous silhouette. His show blotting the light in the most oscarworthy cinematography this decade had seen.

He sighed through his smile. 

“Oh, Harry; you never learn, do you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it's finally going to start getting darker.


	7. Chapter 7

Tom stepped out from behind the table, his tread light against the laminate of the floor, but still loud enough to announce every, single, footstep. And each pace he took, dragged him further away from the light until the blackness was curling around him like a brume off the sea. 

Perhaps, he should have been nervous that he couldn’t see his hands as they hung at his sides, clenching and stretching, the knuckles cracking like sticks under children’s feet. But Tom wasn’t nervous in the dark, rather, be was free. For when the gloom envelopes you, there is no light left in the world to judge you for your crimes. 

No convictions can be made when there is no evidence of the crime.

And the dark hides _everything_. 

Tom took another step, leaving the laminate floor for the dull sounds of the carpet. He swallowed and gripped at the knife again, it felt heavier than before. Filled to the brim with the weight of what it was, what it could do in the right hands, and Tom’s hands were _exactly_ the right ones. 

He rolled his neck and skimmed his eyes across the ever-shifting black of the room. The dark seeping into his vision until it swirled in varying shades of static grey. Harry was almost certainly crouched down behind the sofa, given it the only piece of furniture possible to hide behind, unless, of course, he had hidden in the bedroom.

But that would have been _very_ stupid. 

After all, only one door in, meant only one door out. And Tom was willing to wait for this prize. They both knew, after all, that Harry didn’t work Fridays, so, that was three days before he was missed; three days that Tom could wait. Though he’d really rather be doing something more… _satisfying_ than merely waiting. 

The room stayed quiet, not a breath on the air.

Harry was staying _annoyingly_ still.

There was nothing to suggest where he was, which was not a disaster, merely an inconvenience that made Tom scrape the knife along the wall. The serrations catching on the texture of the wallpaper and making a cacophonous sound that grated at his ears. He didn’t stop, rather, Tom pressed the knife harder in, hoping to leave a scratch along the wall, a permanent reminder of what he did.

“Is this how you want to play it, Harry?” he said eventually, dropping the knife from the wall and replacing it with the sound of his voice cutting through the quiet, slicing at it almost viciously. “You and me, in the dark, like a good, old-fashioned, horror movie?”

Not that Tom was complaining. It was a predictable turn of events, but still easily the most fun he’d had in years. Then again, that was how Harry always was, the entertainment. That spark which could turn the fizzing beneath his skin into a full-blown reaction; burning shockingly bright and stinging at every blood vessel inside him. 

And still, Harry didn’t say anything. 

Tom swallowed; he wasn’t above monologuing if the moment suited, and such a moment as this, well, it was gift wrapped. A captive audience, a weighty subject, and, of course, the obscurity of the dark where the sound of his voice meant _everything_.

“What are you hoping to achieve, anyway?” he said casually, resuming the slow dragging of the knife as he continued to walk in slow, steady steps around the edge of the room. “Do you really think you can escape the inevitable, Harry?”

“I want you to get out of my fucking apartment,” Harry said, interrupting like he always did. Though, this time it was useful, the sound coming from near the main door, or maybe the chair, it was hard to tell when the sound was strangely muffled by the dark, but, at least, it was a guideline.

Tom cocked his head to the side. “Or what?” he said slowly, tapping his nails one by one on the sideboard, timing them with the beats of his heart, “are you going to call the police? Or, are you going to try and kill me, again?”

Harry didn’t answer that. 

But what was there to say?

After all, apologies tend to work best straight after the event in question, not five years down the line when you're fearful of your life. Somehow that scenario robs the apology of the sincerity it requires. But no matter, Tom wasn’t here to extract apologies. They were well past that point by now; more, in the territory of retribution. Of delivering much the same as Tom had received from Harry’s less than kind hands.

Generous, perhaps, in their intent, but not kind. 

There was rarely kindness to be had in an attempted murder. 

So, Tom swallowed again; the tip of the knife digging by his own volition into his thigh, as if the pain of it would distract him. “Do you lie awake at night and remember you did? Because I do,” he murmured, disliking the weight of it on his tongue. Though, despite the words themselves, Tom couldn’t deny he was in love with the way he sounded when he said them; the low tones of his voice firm and controlling and spreading out through the room like hot molasses.

“I think about it every night,” he added softly, as though this were a prayer or a confession, and perhaps it was. Perhaps this was him finally comprehending the magnitude of what Harry had done. For even just the taste of words in his mouth got his heart pounding and every pulse point burning and the muscles in his fingers twitching.

Tom stopped, a hand gripping the back of the chair. The cover was cool beneath his fingers, scratchy in a way that contrasted the slick glossiness of everything inside him. 

He swallowed. 

“And every night I think about what I’m going to do to you,” he said, this time with more bite; all vicious at the edges as though the letters themselves were sharpened and inlaid with a metallic point designed pierce right through any _misguided_ confidence Harry was starting to feel. 

But Harry maintained his silence. 

It was starting to get to his nerves. 

Tom had never been patient. If things needed to be done, it was better they were done quickly, of course, there were some exceptions; some things were genuinely better taken slow and sensual, Harry should know that. But this was _not_ one of those times.

Quite the opposite. 

Tom couldn’t help but click his tongue. There was no point doing anything until he knew exactly where Harry was, and he didn’t. The dark was thick enough that Tom could only make the best guess: a space a couple of meters wide where Harry _might_ be; a space simply too wide to be remotely accurate. 

What he really needed, was Harry to move again. 

But there were ways of getting people to do want you want. Violence was, needless to say, the easiest; most people cowered at the slightest insinuation of pain. Bribery was of a similar vein, though it lacked the personal finesse afforded to violence. But some people, oh, some people were less easily intimidated. They usually had justice threaded through their bodies, infused into their very bones. They liked to think themselves above all that, which usually made their fall _so_ much sweeter. 

To get under their skin required a little more precision; words that melt off your tongue, and the edge of your smile caught in your gaze. Seduction was a dirty game, in more ways than one, but the rewards were always a little more satisfying. 

Tom wetted his lips; and moved his hand from the chair, the material crinkling as he did so. He turned to look towards the main door and kept his tone steady.

“You know, Harry,” he said as quietly as he could, while still enunciating each syllable with perfect clarity; and making sure to take his time to give Harry’s name the full weight that it deserved. “I can’t help _touching_ myself when I think about what I want to do to you.”

A sharp inhale jerked the silence awake.

_There you are._

Tom smiled and took a step towards the sound, his tread almost silent on the carpet, and his fingers making only the lightest sounds as they pattered along the wall. He didn’t _need_ to say anymore, the objective had been achieved, but why stop when you’re having fun?

“Just the thought of you on your back, my hands on your thighs, spreading you out like I used to…” he paused, more to hear the devasting effect of silence than anything else, “…do you remember that, Harry?”

“Do you remember your hands in my hair, and my hands on your hips and my mouth on your – ” 

Harry made a dash across the room, just a grey streak through the dark. He had to be by the window now. Probably pressed against the wall with his eyes so wide; hopefully remembering every single second of that night in grotesque clarity. 

“Because I do,” he said, stepping slowly forward, his fingers still tapping, though this time along the back of the sofa. “I remember everything you _need_, and everything you _like_, and everything you _want_.” 

He must have been standing so close beside Harry that he too must have felt his presence; from the heat of his hands to the quiet, careful breaths he was taking. He must know his life was coming to its pinnacle; the critical apex of his existence.

That this moment was now his sole purpose.

“Have you missed me, Harry?” Tom murmured, taking one last step forward, his hand reaching out to pull at the collar of Harry’s T-shirt; to drag him back and slam him against the wall and show him right for making him wait so fucking long.

But his fingers scraped nothing but air. 

And that was not part of the plan, but before Tom could turn around, Harry’s voice was behind him. It was soft, the nerves smoothed over, but not vanished, no matter how hard he tried. “Yes,” he murmured, “but I still fucking hate you,” he said as his hand clamped over Tom’s mouth.


	8. Chapter 8

For what felt like hours but must have only been mere minutes, Tom didn’t react. He _couldn’t_ react. The sheer surprise of it, knocked all the sense out of him as a ball hit right out the court. He just hung there, suspended in the moment, Harry's hands warm against his mouth. 

It was a fucking shock, to say the least. 

And he couldn't stop thinking about it. Nothing ever caught him by surprise anymore, _nothing_. Tom was always on top of the game; he was the one who _arranged_ the chessboard, not one of those ivory pieces himself. And, yet, he couldn't stop going over the moment, replaying the microseconds back in his head, seeing his own thought process over and over and over and wondering how had he missed this?

How did he fucking miss it? 

Harry would have had to pass him by, so how did he miss him; the presence of Harry’s body, skimming past his and the heat of his skin and the sound of his feet. It shouldn’t have been possible, and yet, it had happened. The fact that Harry’s hands were digging into him was proof enough. Tom could feel where the knuckles were bent, and where the pads of his fingers were pushing into the skin around his jaw. 

It was sickening.

And a little attractive.

Despite himself, Tom couldn’t help but be a tiny, _tiny_ bit impressed; Harry had always been the only one who could always entertain him. And no matter how much he seemed knew about Harry, the man never ceased to find ways to surprise him. That was what Tom liked about him, the simplicity with which he wrought his way through everything like the gold filigree of a Crown, never the centrepiece, but always there, nonetheless. 

But as much as he’d liked to stay and find out _exactly_ what Harry’s plan consisted of, he couldn’t let that happened. 

Not when he had waited five fucking years. Maybe, just maybe, if Harry learnt to play along, Tom _might_ just drop his control of it all, and let Harry have a little fun. But he wasn’t going to do that until he trusted him.

He did not trust Harry. 

Not after a stunt like that. And Tom certainly did not hang around in this, still gentrifying and thus highly distasteful, area of the city for three months, only for Harry to once again upset the careful balance of his life. 

It wasn’t the game he’d signed up to play. 

So, without a second thought, really, Tom slammed his elbow back; even if he missed it would give him an idea of distance, and distance was always such a critical medium to understand. Knowing exactly where people were, was _vital_, Tom knew that more than ever now. Fortunately though, his elbow hit something hard, something he presumed must be Harry's chest, based on the groan of pain that echoed in the room. 

_Good._

Maybe he shouldn’t actively smile at someone else’s suffering, but Tom couldn't help it, and, perhaps, that was wrong. But then again, Harry _definitely_ deserved it this time. Tom jabbed again, harder, the very point of his elbow aiming roughly for the sternum. Bones always hurt more than muscle or fat more even just skin. That was why you break bones because they hurt more, and people tend to remember pain better than most other experiences, so they’ll do what you want, again and again, and again. 

He hit his target quite squarely by the sounds that Harry made, they weren’t quite groans anymore, more muffled cries. The sort of sound you make when your teeth clamp down on your own mouth to try and stop embarrassing noises making their way into intense quietude. 

It didn’t work. 

And Tom could, quite easily, have stepped back into the veil of the dark and disappeared, and made them start this whole hunt over again; he _could_ have done that, but he’d run out of patience and his hands were getting twitchy, itching to use that knife in his palm on Harry’s skin. 

Itching to make it hurt.

It would be quite easy, for, whilst, Harry might have been physically stronger, he lacked the speed and the finesse of movement. His idea of getting what he wanted was sheer brutality, a heavy hand for all potential situations. Tom couldn’t imagine that such an approach had ever actually worked on anyone with more than half a brain cell. 

But it didn’t curb Harry’s enthusiasm for grabbing at pockets of darkness quite arbitrarily. 

Tom watched him for a minute, occasionally seeing the tips fingers, and definitely hearing Harry’s increasingly panicked breathing as he realised, he had no idea where Tom was. Well, at least he knew how it felt now.

As he watched the pathetic spectacle, Tom dug the knife into his thigh again. That was the other good thing about jeans they were thicker than slacks and tore less easily, and with the pressure, he was currently putting on the fabric, that was probably a good thing. 

He forced himself to breathe slower, drawing a square with the knife and breathing in time with it. Even a year ago, Tom would have probably stabbed Harry outright, but it would such a shame to let good planning to waste for the satisfaction of impulse. 

Tom swallowed and rolled his neck back; this evening was not supposed to be this stressful, but trust Harry to ruin it. Tom wouldn’t deny that a small part of him quite wanted to hit Harry in the jaw, to slam that gorgeous little face into the wall multiple times, preferably until it was bruised and bloody and he understood exactly what his place was. _But_ that would ruin everything else he had planned, after all, looking at a bruised and bloodied face was hardly conducive to… having a _good_ evening.

If he was to put it politely.

So, Tom contented himself with waiting in the dark. Listening to how Harry’s feet moved on the carpet, sliding over the fabric – polypropylene – if Tom was not mistaken. He could hear it in the scratchiness that was _intensely_ irritating. But just more few more seconds as Harry turned around, slowing as he did so, probably squinting into the dark.

Tom struck like a snake, grabbing Harry’s wrists and pushing them into the middle of his back and slamming him into the window. There was no sill here, and most of Harry’s chest went right up against the glass. It must have been cold.

_Really cold._

Outside, down many, many, floors, and onto the street, people could be seen, wound up in their winter coats even though it wasn’t officially winter for another fifty-two days. Tom continued to watch over Harry’s shoulder; he could see the traffic was starting to build up, and there was bus after bus after bus queued along the road, and a line of cars starting to form, all emitting lights like a firework trail. There truly was a certain beauty to be had in London at night, even out here, with the real city miles away. 

Harry should see it.

Well, Harry _could_ see it. He couldn’t help but see it, actually, as his cheek was crushed against the glass, and Tom’s limbs moulded over his like a chrysalis or a membrane. His weight draped over Harry, compressing his lungs against the cold of the glass and solidness of the wall, until he felt Harry’s breath begin to stutter; become laboured and choked and half-fucking-suffocated. 

He deserved it. 

Tom leaned closer, allowing himself a moment to feel Harry’s body pressed so intimately to his. The tightness in his shoulders and the incessant fumbling of his hands, and how he struggled and squirmed like an insect when a small child holds its legs down. It was pitiful and Tom clicked his tongue disapprovingly, the sound unbelievably loud in the silence, interrupted only by Harry’s breathing.

It fogged up the glass.

“You don't get do that, Harry,” he said or rather murmured, soft and almost sultry in his ear, “you don’t get to do _anything_ like that,” he continued, his mouth so close to Harry’s skin that it was unbearably tempting to kiss him. But, then again, there was no one here to stop him, so he pressed a light kiss to Harry’s cheek like he used to. “Got it, Harry?”

Harry made a noise that didn’t sound particularly like acquiescence, more frustration and anger and dissatisfaction, blurred into one smothered groan, which was a shame because it was rather a lovely sound. 

They stayed there, pressed together, looking out over London. “It’s pretty, isn’t it? London at night,” Tom said, as he pushed the back of his hand into Harry’s neck, forcing him to look out at the people and lights and the gloom of the clouds hanging so low. If they didn’t talk, and the wind died down, they could hear the trains chuntering into the station and the horns of vehicles and siren of a police car. 

But Harry didn’t spend long looking before trying to push back against Tom. “Get – the fuck – off of me,” he spat, though it wasn’t nearly as dramatic when his cheek was smushed against the window, and his words were glueing themselves together.

“Oh, Harry,” he said, his knuckles pressing into the bones of Harry’s spine, “I _might_ have done that, if you hadn’t been so… stupid.”

Shifting his weight ever so slightly, Tom increased the pressure of his left arm, keeping Harry’s hands at the centre of his back, whilst dropping his right away from Harry’s neck. Almost immediately, Harry started squirming again like an overexcited gerbil. Though he stopped as soon as Tom began the slow, upward scrape of the knife over Harry’s waist. 

In fact, when he started, Harry went very still; it was good to know he appreciated quite how much of a mess he’d just got himself into. But Harry could never help himself, apparently, he could cause problems quite by accident, just wandering around haphazardly, and leaving a trail of chaos behind him. 

Quite why anyone allowed him to still be a member of the constabulary was a mystery to Tom.

But he didn’t have time to ponder on it. Well, actually, he did, but there was something more pressing currently beneath his knife. So, Tom just smiled and continued to grip the handle and drag the blade upward with a delicacy that would been highly commendable in any kitchen. Just the tip digging into Harry’s T-shirt, he must be able to feel it on his skin, it might have even been leaving behind a little red line. One he could trace later, with his fingers, or his nails, or his tongue.

“You know, when you stabbed me,” he said softly, intimately, like this was a memory to be treasured, and maybe it was. For he hadn’t been able to shake it out of his head for five fucking years, and when something is inside you for _that_ long, you start to treasure it, no matter how twisted it is. “You missed my heart by half an inch.”

Harry squirmed. 

“Half an inch,” Tom repeated, “you were so close,” he continued as he slid the knife higher, leaving behind a lovely crease in the fabric. Like this Tom could feel Harry’s ribs, the bump, bump, bump of them beneath the tip. It contrasted to the firmness of the muscles in his shoulders. They were strong and solid, and pushing the knife into them would feel like pushing it through the joint of lamb.

Tom would be lying if he said he didn’t want to do it, here, now. Without a care in the world for the pain and the blood and the lack of decorum. But he didn’t. If five years of waiting had taught him anything, it was patience, the value of restraint when getting what you want. Impulse can only take you so far, and sometimes propriety is needed, even in the most _improper_ of circumstance.

So, he didn’t skewer Harry’s shoulders like a vertical rotisserie. Instead, Tom swallowed and let the tip of the knife trail off Harry’s shoulder and into the air. He could feel Harry’s sharp inhale, before he returned to the usual deep breaths that were too structured to be anything but a desperate attempt at control.

“Why did you do it?” Tom said absently, barely registering the words were leaving his mouth until they hung there, suspended in the ether; too late to take them back. It had been a question on the tip of his tongue for so long now, so much so that other people were beginning to call it an unhealthy fixation, even an obsession, according to Lestrange. But Tom was inclined not to listen since Lestrange been giving out his unwarranted, and frankly unsolicited medicinal advice ever since he’d got that fucking medical degree. 

Rather, he shoved Harry harder against the window, as though he’d meant to say it and it wasn’t just some foolish slip of the tongue. “Why?” he said again, unable to help the slight, disgusting, note of vulnerability spreading out like ink on water.

Harry swallowed. 

But silence continued to hold sway. 

“I want to know, Harry,” Tom hissed; his tone a little sharper, a little nastier. But Harry just jutted his jaw pressed himself closer to the window. Even daring to shut his eyes and pretend the question didn’t exist, when it so obviously did.

How adorable. 

“Don’t be like that, I just want… closure; I’m sure you want that too, right?” he said, still raising the knife, higher enough that, had Harry opened his eyes, he would have been able to see it, glinting in the city lights. The blade itself dappled with the colours of red and orange and yellow, bright spots from the cars and the buildings. It was genuinely a pretty sight like a garland of flowers draped across the steel.

But Harry didn’t move.

He didn’t even open his eyes. 

Which, whilst it was a pretty display of defiance, was a shame. It was naïve for Harry to think that through sheer will power alone, he was going to make it out of this without any... permanent marks. Harry was wrong of course, from the moment he had walked back into his apartment, he had signed himself up to a whole variety of _permanent_ marks.

Some more… _pleasurable_ then others. 

Tom pressed himself closer, working the stainless steel over Harry’s neck, the serrations making him tense even more, though, really, there was no need to be worried. Tom knew what he was doing, he’d thought about this too much not to. There were plans behind his eyes and proposals imprinted into his brain. 

He could do this with his eyes closed. 

Maybe he would try, they did, after all, have _all_ weekend. 

For now though, Tom settled with continuing to glide the edge of the steel over Harry’s external jugular vein, taking his time to push into the skin a little, not enough to harm or even maim, but _just_ enough so that Harry could _feel_ it; enough that he could imagine what it would be like if Tom’s hand so insidiously slipped. And Tom couldn’t help but laugh as Harry raised his chin, exposing his throat like appeasing him now was going to make everything go away. 

Harry still didn’t open his eyes though. 

Pity. 

Harry’s eyes always held too many emotions; his entire face was like a pantomime, always painfully obvious what was going on inside his head. Right now, he was chewing on his lip, all the cogs inside his head whirring as he tried to think of a way out.

But he should know by now, there was no way out.

Though Harry should really stop acting like this was the worst thing in the world. Three, whole, days together should be a dream come true, especially if Harry still missed him, like he so obviously still did. So, it wasn’t a nightmare, not at all, and in a couple of hours, maybe Harry would come to understand he might just enjoy himself.

If only he’d stop being so _moral_.

Tom continued to stroke the knife’s tip over and over the pulse point of Harry’s throat, revisiting it like he was lover lapping at his favourite inch of skin. And with every twist, every spin of the steel, Harry shuddered. His hands wriggling and his breath steaming up a larger portion of the window. 

If anyone were to look up from the street, right now, at just the right angle, they would see.

They would know. 

But, fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on how you looked at it, no one was ever that observant. People just wanted to go home. They wouldn’t care, even if they did see. That was a lovely, distinguishing feature of the British public, an ingrained sense of privacy that went so deep they’d be inclined to ignore a murder happening right in front of their eyes, so long as it didn’t impact them. 

Tom just licked his lips, the knife hooked under Harry’s chin, and leaning so close to the shell of his ear. “Now, Harry,” he murmured, “are you going to be a _good boy_ from now on, or do I have to do something I’d rather not?”


	9. Chapter 9

Harry stayed silent, which was always a good sign. The first stage of acquiescence is always silence. It makes them think that they’re not the ones giving in because they’re being quiet. They think their silence is someone else’s, and whatever it is that you’re going to do to them is firmly _beyond_ their control. 

It wasn’t, of course. 

For, there was something deeply _unsettling_, not to mention, _disappointing_ about forcing people to do what you want. When that happens, they can pretend that they were nothing more than the helpless victim to some sadistic game; a simple spectator, unable to command their fate. Their lack of choice becoming their weapon.

It was an annoying habit.

Which was why Tom had explored some, perhaps less than ethical, solutions. 

After all, any brute can commit violence to achieve their aims. Any human on earth can break bones if they’re so inclined; it is one of those distinctly human characteristics: attachment to unnecessary violence. Though they are not, of course, the _exclusive_ characteristics, Tom had found there were often more _suitable_ ways to achieve the same ends. He, himself had made a quarter his life off of people using _suitable_ methods of retribution. 

Petty litigation was a surprisingly lucrative business. 

But so was murder. 

Just fewer people attempted that.

Tom was pulled out of that little musing quite prematurely, by Harry struggling again. He’d probably felt the slight relaxation of force, the slackening of Tom’s muscles as he’d been thinking of other things. It was an annoying thing to do, not least because he had thought Harry might just be getting the idea. 

“I’ll remind you, Harry, of what I _just_ said,” Tom murmured, mouth still close to his ear, hyoid bone. He wouldn’t die, not immediately if Tom’s hand were to slip; with the right medical attention he might even live, and Tom would be credited with saving his life.

And what a _pretty_ turn of events that would be. 

But something told him that Harry wouldn’t appreciate hearing it right now, or ever, probably. Such a shame, he’d never been able to appreciate the irony in the things Tom thought about doing. That same lack of communication, was, at least, a contributing factor to what had driven them apart last time. 

Because neither of them ever listened.

Well, Tom was listening now. Listening to everything, from the sound of Harry’s breathing the noise of the cars outside. The loud noises of buses as they stopped and started, even as they were beginning to become empty. 

Harry was still glaring though; Tom could see it in the growing reflection of the window. A small little scowl that was entirely unnecessary, really. After all, Tom wasn’t going to hurt him, as long as he did what he was supposed to.

But then again, when had Harry ever done what he was supposed to?

That man was pathologically incapable of obeying instructions, even if they were for his benefit. Yet another reason why the police force really didn’t look like the best form of employment. Harry wasn’t exactly the type to follow rules simply because they existed.

Nor was he particularly good at following standard conventions: like not being a general _pain_ during a customary home invasion. And, if it had been anyone else, then Tom might even have given up, but Harry was simply a prize he’d been chasing for too long to give up now. 

So, when Harry shoved back for the fourth time, Tom bit his tongue and pressed the very point of the knife quite hard into the base of Harry’s chin. A simple shove and it would straight through his tongue.   
“For this to _remotely_ go your way, Harry, I need you to relax,” Tom said calmly, his left hand reducing the pressure on Harry’s wrists. A silent promise of what could be agreed if he’d just stop squirming. 

“How am I supposed to fucking relax, Tom?” 

Tom smiled, he couldn’t help it, not when it was so lovely to hear his name on Harry’s tongue again. Knowing Harry as he did, Tom suspected that he’d been deliberately avoiding using it; as though if he said it, he might invite him to be much more intimate than he already was. Well, Tom wasn’t fucking Beetlejuice so that was hardly going to work. 

Maybe, in different circumstances, Tom would have increased the pressure of his wrists and rammed Harry hard against the glass again, preferably violent enough to make him bleed. But, unfortunately, such a response would hardly be conducive for getting what he wanted.

And he did rather want Harry to submit out of choice. 

After all, subjugation could never be as satisfying as the most compulsive forms of corruption. If you were to step out of your skin and take an objective look, you’d see subjugation was the blunt force trauma of the medical world, and, to continue the analogy, corruption was more of a surgical procedure, performed with a scalpel and Metzenbaum scissors. 

Perhaps the best feature of corruption, was that gratifying feeling it produced, that one where their faces fell as they realised, they couldn’t blame anyone but themselves. No matter who they were, they all made the same expression, a sort of shock awed horror, usually at their own stupidity. 

“You could start,” Tom said, hands still gripping tight, “by not thrashing around.”

“I will, when you get my fucking kitchen knife off my neck,” Harry said back, baring his teeth against the window and breathing heavier than before, as though this was an enormous effort on his part. It wasn’t. Or, at least, it wasn’t compared to the effort that Tom was currently putting into keeping him still.

It was making his arms ache to be honest. 

But he dug Harry’s wrists into his own back again, twisting it; repeated reprimands were, apparently, how you trained small children, and Harry was rather behaving like one, so it might have the same effects. “Firstly,” Tom said, “it’s not _your_ knife when it’s in _my_ hand, now, is it?”

Harry didn’t answer.

“And secondly, this is _not_ a kitchen knife.” That time he said it with a little more bite because, for one, it was really fucking obvious, and, two, it was quite frankly _appalling_, how little Harry knew about basic kitchen utensils. Honestly, it made Tom wonder how they’d ever managed to successfully live together for four years. 

“I don’t care what the fuck it is, Tom, I don’t want it anywhere near me.”

That was a lie. 

Harry might like to pretend that he wanted the quiet life. The sort with a wife or a husband and small lookalike children, maybe even a dog, but that wasn’t what he _really_ wanted. No, he wanted the excitement of his youth; the rush of being around danger and peril, constantly taking risks that might just work.

Whether he’d admit it or not, Tom guessed that was why Harry had re-joined the police force, particularly those low-ranking foot soldiers; the ones that politicians so candidly said put their lives on the line for us, and then repeatedly underfunded because it was fun to see human life go to waste. 

So, yes, Tom definitely suspected, given the right circumstances, he could persuade Harry that he did want that knife _all_ over him.

But, for now, he conceded. For a moment, Tom weighed the health and safety implications of putting a knife in his back pocket, before deciding it was considerably safer to have it on his person than to leave it on any remotely accessible surface. 

With the knife out of the picture, he took Harry’s chin in his hand, and tilted his face awkwardly towards him; like this, their lips were so close, and kissing Harry would have been so easy. Tom was genuinely tempted. But there was a hardness to the set of Harry’s mouth, such a line that suggested he might just bite if Tom tried anything, and not in any way that Tom would enjoy. 

But, then again, Tom had always liked a challenge. 

He liked taking every opportunity to wrap his tongue around an idea, and spin silver spiderwebs until he had… _persuaded_ his position. That was why he was good at his job. Good at getting what he wanted, no matter how _unreasonable_ it would have sounded from anyone else’s mouth. 

Hence the one month’s paid leave to do nothing in particular. 

Tom swallowed, still watching Harry’s mouth. It was quivering ever so slightly, and he could see Harry’s teeth, brighter in the light from outside. Though it had faded since they began, dusk turning into twilight, and then slipping further under the veil; a curtain to hide from the sun’s invasive glare. 

“You know, Harry, you _should_ learn to navigate your way around a knife,” Tom said, his tone warmer than before, sweeter he’d like to think, as though they friends. And as he said it, he stroked his right hand down Harry’s back, feeling the muscle beneath the skin. Tom wouldn’t lie to himself, he wanted to touch him, to dig his fingers into the creases no one else got to see.

“I do actually know how to use a knife, Tom,” Harry hissed, rudely interrupting his thoughts with an undeniably acrimonious tone, as bitter as raw coffee beans would be. There was a warning strung through it too, as though Harry was trying to remind him of just how _well_ he could use a knife if he wanted to. 

Not that Tom would count missing someone’s heart as being particularly skilled. 

“In the same way that you know how to use your kitchen, I imagine,” Tom said as he leant in again, “that is to say,” he clarified, “you don’t have a clue.”

Harry stayed quiet, though Tom could feel the tightening of his body beneath him. The tense muscles expanding a little, pushing out against him, like Harry was trying to mimic a grenade, and burst out from under him. 

That wouldn’t work.

But Tom didn’t say anything, after all, he didn’t want to spoil Harry’s fun. 

Harry gave up quicker than he’d expected, and just laid his cheek back on the window, watching the street; the colours reflected in his eyes, making them swim with tints and shades and hues that were all so much warmer than the colours that usually swam through his eyes. 

For a moment, Tom just watched, mesmerised by the moving colours and the steam that was growing on the window like mould. He could imagine Harry leaning against this window, quite by choice, just staring out at the bright lights and the people and the sky and wondering whether he’d made all the wrong decisions. 

He kept his hand steady on Harry’s right arm as he leaned in again, “I’ll start simple, shall I?” Tom murmured, his mouth against the shell of Harry’s ear; the heat of his tongue glazing over the helix.

Tom swallowed.

“You have the handle,” he said, “made of wood or plastic, sometimes even metal.” He swallowed again, his tongue too dry and rough and heavy in his mouth as he looked at Harry. “And you have the blade,” he continued, “the best are made of carbon steel, but you can get stainless steel, and titanium, or even ceramics.”

He gripped his fingers harder around Harry’s upper arm. 

“I’ve always liked ceramics,” he said softly, more to fill the silence than anything else. Though it was true, somehow there was a class to them, a sophistication, unattainable by something as crude as metal. Even the material sounded nice on his tongue, sintered zirconium dioxide, elegant, tasteful. But, then again, the did lack that sparkle afforded to steel. The shine and the glimmer, even the reflection was robbed from ceramics. They lacked the drama and the theatrics that Tom had come to appreciate.

Pain was boring if it wasn’t beautiful.

_That was why he’d be using steel later._

Carbon steel mind you. He had briefly considered, back before all this began, of relying on whatever Harry used, and Tom was glad he hadn’t stuck with that plan because Harry’s collection of knives had been, quite frankly, insulting to him. They were the sort with the pretty coloured handles and blades that would struggle to cut through an apple.

But that was a deviation, and there were more… important matters currently before him. Most notably, Harry, who was, for once, not squirming or wriggling or even fidgeting. Rather, it was almost as though he was _listening_ to Tom.

And why shouldn’t he?

Tom knew he was good to listen to. Everyone said he had a way with words, but not only that, more, really. He had a way of performing the words. Of course, no one ever appreciated quite how much effort went into each and every act, how choreographed his entire life was for the sake of capturing a moment’s perfection. There were rarely times when the light and the sound and the mood all aligned as though they were stars, and he was gifted with the perfect stage.

But, if there had to be such a time, then it was now. 

Here, with Harry pressed against the window, the slightest illumination of the lights on his face, and the same light dappled over Tom’s fingers. Like this there no distractions, nothing to take Harry’s focus off _him_. 

Which was how it _should_ be for a performance of this magnitude. 

He swallowed, working the words over his tongue as if to heat them, like it would make them more palatable to Harry’s ear. “The anatomy of a blade is often misunderstood,” he murmured. And it was true; most people didn’t realise than every part had a name, every part had purpose, and there was _nothing_ worse than finally getting to the action, only to have some smarmy little fatality try to explain to him that _they_ knew better. 

They didn’t. 

And he was going to make sure Harry, at least, didn’t have that line of complaint open to him. Anyway, it might put some familiarity back into the relationship; five years was, after all, a long time. Tom shifted his weight a little and moved his right hand. “So, Harry,” he said, “along the top of the blade is the spine.” 

As he said it, Tom raised his hand, at first, he just pressed lightly against Harry’s shoulder bone in a mockery of authority. But it quickly traversed the boundaries of appropriate, and into the sort of territory that would involve Human Resources if it were conducted in a more _official_ capacity. His fingers running over the material of Harry’s shirt, before dipping under the elastic neck, where Harry’s skin was so much warmer. 

Harry shivered but didn’t shake him off.

“If you move underneath,” he murmured, pausing to slide his fingers back up his neck, before hovering over Harry’s collarbone, barely touching the skin, “you have the heel.” With the same slight touches, Tom moved his fingers upward, walking them over Harry’s skin, “beyond that is the edge.”   
He traced his nails further, scratching and pressing into Harry’s throat, making him, by his own volition, rise his chin “and the tip.” 

“And last of all, Harry,” he murmured, “you have the point.” As he said it, Tom resting his index finger on Harry’s lips. They were soft, and Tom could feel the heat of Harry’s mouth as it moved, trying to find the insults to loop over his tongue, but, like a thread through the eye of a needle, Harry kept missing the mark.

“I – I know what a bloody knife is,” he spat out eventually, though it sounded shaky, Tom would have almost said _unsure_. Almost as though Harry Potter was losing his grip.

It made Tom smile. “Is that so?” he murmured, “is that why you so intentionally mislabelled such a standard one?”

“It _is_ a fucking kitchen knife, Tom,” Harry said, though it lacked the malice of before, and now, he was just repeating an incorrect fact with no intentions other than spite. 

But even that _petty_ motivation was starting to get to Tom. It was unnecessary and uncalled-for and frankly was just itching for chastisement. Harry probably wanted him to snap, after all, if he was the one who committed the first act of _real_ violence, then self-defence came into the picture.

Self-defence was, undeniably, one of the most irritating defences available in English law; entirely subjective and almost entirely reliant on physical characteristics, no matter how much a judge might claim otherwise. So, no, Tom was not going to rise to that. He was going to be _professional_, or at least, as professional as you can be in scenarios such as this. 

He just kept his fingers at the corners of Harry’s mouth, firmly outside of biting range, but still outrageously intimate. “No, Harry; what I have, is a steak knife,” he said, almost wanting to wave in front of his eyes until he got the message. “It’s small, serrated; perfect for _eating_ with.” As he said it, Tom leant forward so that his breath bristled over the back of Harry’s neck; watching as the pilomotor reflex kicked in.

“Kitchen knives, on the other hand, are designed for cooking,” he continued, resisting the urge to make a quip at Harry for his distinct lack of cooking prowess. There was no doubt such remark wouldn’t get the credit it deserved, and would probably just be counterproductive, given Harry was no longer writhing to get away from him. 

Quite the opposite, in fact. 

Tom continued; his fingers still pressing into Harry’s jaw, he could feel every time he swallowed. “There are all sorts of style,” he said into Harry’s neck, letting his lips brush at the surface, “the chef’s knife, for instance, is all-purpose.” He paused to swallow, “broad and so _heavy_. It can cut through bone as good as any cleaver.”

Ever so gently, Tom began to ease his weight off Harry’s wrists, enough that Harry _might_ have been able to do some damage to him, if he was inclined. But he stayed still, breathing as heavy as a chef’s knife, against the window. Even still, Tom kept himself pressed up against him, as tight as a second skin; after all, there was no harm in taking precautions. 

“Then you have the paring knife, Harry,” he murmured, “small, you could almost say delicate, and, _oh so_, intricate.” Tom paused for long enough to feel Harry swallow again and clench at his jaw. Tom’s specific intentions with his next act, were definitely crossing a line he’d intended to stay on the other side of. 

But plans change. 

And Tom had no qualms with pressing the very tip of his tongue against the graze the steak knife had left behind on Harry’s jugular; “it’s so good for the _precise_ work,” he murmured, feeling the undeniable throb of Harry’s pulse right through his tongue. 

“But, still, my _favourite_,” he said, spinning out the syllables like silk, “has to be the boning knife.” There was more than enough satisfaction to be had in the way Harry shuddered as he said it; still wound up so tight, he really should learn how to relax. “You can guess what it’s for,” he murmured. 

Harry swallowed, loudly. 

But said nothing. 

“Well, I’ll tell you, shall I?” he said with a smile. “It’s for getting out those little bones that lurk under your skin.” He let go of Harry’s wrists and instead ran his nails down over Harry’s fingers, feeling the bones beneath the skin, before slipping between them and holding tight. “It’s a sharp-edged knife, and solid too. You’d be able to feel every inch.”

Tom exhaled slowly, trying to ignore the beating of his heart so hard against his ribs. Surely, Harry would be able to feel it on his spine, that heavy throbbing. He swallowed and instead tried to focus on Harry. On the colour of his lips and the shade of his skin and the shadows that were gliding all over his face. 

Terribly romantic. 

Romantic enough to take a chance. The worst that could happen was pain, and that was merely subjective; relative to your position in the universe, and Tom’s position had been pain’s glare for as long as he could remember. Not that that was _always_ a bad thing, life had taught him that there were some _exceptional_ forms of suffering that were almost to die for.

Which was ironic really. 

But he was getting distracted again. It was becoming quite the habit around Harry. Tom swallowed again, trying to ignore the rising bubble of anticipation that insisted on blocking his trachea every time he tried to inhale. Ever so carefully, Tom leaned right up against Harry and kissed at the corner of his mouth. 

“And, Harry, once it’s inside you, you’d beg for it.”

Harry’s lips were chilled by the window and trembling, though whether that was the cold or the moment, Tom wasn’t entirely sure, but, it was nice. So _nice_ that Harry was finally understanding the advantages of acquiescence.

But like every good moment, it wasn’t going to last. 

A police siren screaming its way through, or rather not through, the long line of traffic just outside the window made sure of that. Almost instantly whatever false sense of security Harry had been lulled into vanished and he was shoving back against Tom again. 

It _might_ have worked too, if Tom was stupid. 

Instead, Harry only succeeding in turning around and planting a particularly nasty kick to Tom’s shin, which fucking hurt, but also distracted him for long enough for Tom to shove him back against the wall, though this time, it was Harry’s back that hit glass, and Tom’s hand was on his throat.

Like this, Tom could hardly make out Harry’s features; they were all just blurred into a mask of black, a silhouette against the twilight speckled with brake lights and traffic lights and headlights. Though, even with the disguise of the dark, he could still tell that Harry was _not_ impressed. 

“What the fuck was that?” Harry said, hissed really, the words coming out from between his teeth like eels come out from coral, and what was probably a glare scrawled all over his face. 

“What you wanted.”

“And what _exactly_ made you think that I wanted to be a part of your sick version of foreplay,” Harry said, drawing himself back against the window. But, despite his mouth glaring and the frown on his features, his eyes didn’t hold the malice he wanted them to. 

What a pity. 

Tom hummed softly to himself and moved his hand off Harry’s throat, instead, he gripped at his chin again, deliberately digging his nails into the skin. “Because,” he said softly, “you haven’t taken your eyes off of me since I got here, _because_ your pulse is running away from you, _because_ there’s a flush on your neck and you just keep chewing your lip.”

Harry abruptly stopped chewing.

“So?” he said, raising his chin up like a lion baring its teeth; unfortunately, Harry was just a little cub and the impression came across as cute, rather than remotely threatening. 

Tom clicked his tongue; this charade was starting to try his patience. They both knew what was going to happen. It just needed a catalyst, some insidious _facilitator_ to… get the ball rolling as it were. He swallowed and felt Harry clench his jaw harder.

Well, there were three possible facilitators appreciate for this, particular, moment. Violence was the first one to slide into Tom’s head; that gorgeous idea to choke Harry into compliance and then just skip the optional perks of seeing him again, and simply get on with what he came here for.

Such a reaction disregarded his restraint thus far though. 

Rendered it pointless.

He chewed on his tongue as he thought. Alternatively, there was talking. Explaining the situation over and over again, until he found the pretty words that were palatable to Harry’s ear.

But that would take too long, not to mention, Harry might never get it. 

So that just left – 

“What’s wrong, Tom, cat got your fucking tongue.”

It was so _petty_, and so _Harry_ that Tom really couldn’t stop himself from kissing him, just to shut him up.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm genuinely sorry, firstly, that this chapter took so long to be written, and secondly, that it probably isn't my best, but it's something that might be at least vaguely coherent.

To Tom’s genuine surprise his tongue wasn’t entirely bitten off within three seconds of initiating the kiss, but that was the power of surprise, wasn’t it? The sudden, and rather intense, refocussing and revaluating of everything that existed in his life was the likely reason for the lack of violence.

Though, it was certainly a pleasant surprise for Harry.

_Obviously_. 

Tom doubted it was every day that a handsome ex-partner broke into Harry’s apartment, cooked him dinner, threatened him with a fucking gorgeous knife, and then kissed him like there was candy on his tongue. 

But this used to be their regular Friday night. 

Well, without the breaking in and definitely without the threat of death or serious injury dangling so delectably from a string, but, nevertheless, everything else was exactly how it used to be. Except, at the same time, it wasn’t how it used to be anymore, because everything was different. 

Even Harry’s mouth felt almost foreign under his tongue, and as Harry was slowly coming to his senses the foreignness only increased. For where once would have been pure acquiescence, there was now a harshness; something determined, that Tom liked rather more than he was going to admit.

Because that had always been the problem with Harry; sure, he was fun, entertaining a lot of the time, but he’d never played their game with quite so much vigour as Tom had. There was always something holding him back, and Tom had always assumed it was that last shred of decency that told him what he wanted was wrong. And yes, there was probably a grain or two of truth in that, after all, most of the things that people want, deep down, are wrong; morally, biblically, even legally occasionally.

They were just too afraid of the consequences, to act on their wants. 

But Tom wasn’t. 

So, he continued to kiss Harry, harder than before, using the apices of his teeth to try and coax the frustration out of him; all that fear and anger and infuriation, because this was probably the _healthier_ way of expressing it. Certainly, it was healthier than keeping it bottled up until he fucking stabbed someone again, which would absolutely _not_ be happening this time, at least, if Tom had anything to do with it. 

And still, despite ample time Harry wasn’t pushing him away; he wasn’t telling him to stop. Tom would even go as far to say that he was enjoying himself and that it was merely out of spite that he kept his jaw firm and his tongue stubbornly still. 

Tom steadied himself with his left hand flat against the wall, cool under his fingers, the ridged texture of the wallpaper pressing into his palm. With his right hand, he continued to hold Harry’s jaw. This was how it was _supposed_ to be, them so close that even light could barely find a way to separate them, and it was a fucking shame that they’d wasted half the evening just getting to this point. With such a level of resistance, it was going to be Sunday night before they reached any of the... _good_ stuff. 

But – Tom swallowed – they were here now, and that was all that mattered. And to make matters somewhat better, Tom could feel the slightest crumblings of resistance beginning at the corners of Harry’s mouth. Just the faintest pull that he was going to fully exploit.

And it really didn’t take long for the collapse to happen. One moment, Harry was coiled up like a spring, and the next he was snapping. Easing Tom’s mouth open and biting into his lip and pulling at with his teeth. Rolling it between the upper and lower incisors until Tom loosened his grip on Harry’s jaw just to give him the flexibility to move his mouth better. 

Of course, actually experiencing pain had never been Tom’s thing, but feeling Harry bite into his tongue and knowing that it was _him_ that made Harry act like that, well that was worth the pain a hundred times over. After all, Harry might like to pretend he was this saint; the pinnacle of human virtue, but he was a sinner just like everyone else, though only Tom knew how to get that side out into the open. 

Though, before he could enjoy this properly, there was one final thing that needed to be dealt with. 

As slowly as he could, Tom slid his hand down the wall, brushing it over Harry’s shoulder and down his arm before drifting absently to his hip. With a certain deliberateness, he pushed his thumb into Harry’s t-shirt and traced the dark outline of his silhouette; perhaps, it was devious move; certainly, it lacked that moral propriety that Harry always claimed he liked so much. But misdirection _always_ worked better when the victim, if they could be called such, had no idea they were even watching a magic trick.

So, yes, Tom was probably a bad person for doing it. 

But when had he ever actually claimed he was a _good_ person? Never. Everyone just took one look at him and made their own, incorrect, assumptions and it would be rude to correct them. Occasionally, it genuinely surprised him how much attractive, intelligent people could get away with, though he wasn’t complaining.

Quite the opposite. 

So, he continued to kiss Harry; still holding his jaw far enough back that he must have been able to feel the heat of Tom’s hand on his throat. Not that it seemed to be discouraging Harry in any way, but why should it? After all, the threat of asphyxiation could be quite the aphrodisiac when executed appropriately; there was just something raw about it that got right down to the crux of the hyperarousal and that was quite the Pandora’s box psychosexuality. 

“You know,” he said, pulling Harry closer by his hip, “you should really keep your phone a little…” he paused, “more secure.” That last bit he murmured right into Harry’s ear just as a lover might whisper _dirty_ words; the very tip of his tongue running over the helix again.

Tom felt rather than saw Harry’s response; the altering of his facial muscles that indicated his smile dropped _rather_ quickly and he was now, instead, wearing with a mild look of horror, as well as fumbling a little pathetically at his back pocket.

Not that that would do him any good, Tom was pressing him between the wall, and his own body, far too firmly for that to do any him good. Tom turned the phone over in his hand, feeling the weight of it in his palm; he smiled. This was, after all, the removal of the final boundary left between them; now it was just him and Harry, and no distractions. 

“Oh, don’t worry,” he said with a smile and a tone that perhaps a little too light given the glare spread thick over Harry’s face, “it’s right here.” As Tom said it, he raised up the phone, holding it by the corner and waving it slightly as you might wave a treat at a pet. “Did you _really_ think I wasn’t going to notice, hmm?”

“Give it back!” Harry hissed, as though he were trying to keep quiet, whilst simultaneously trying to reach up and swipe it out of his hand but struggling to even get his arms up with how close Tom was.

“No, I don’t think I will,” Tom said shoving into his own back pocket, alongside the knife, and dismissing the brief, but poignant, thought that told him he should have brought a bag with him. “After all,” he said mouthing at the corner of Harry’s neck, where he was far less likely to have his tongue bitten off, “I wouldn’t want you to call anyone now, would I? Especially not your boyfriend.”

“You piece of fucking – ”

“Oh, just shut up,” he said, almost boredly, as he yanked at Harry’s hair back so that his words became nothing but a strangled noise in the back of his throat. Tom continued regardless, lacing his fingers between the curls until Harry’s head was pulled back against the wall and his throat was curved awkwardly. It was time to get this thing moving a little faster.   
“Now,” Tom murmured, “I’ve been very indulgent with you this evening, Harry.” He leaned in closer and mouthed along his neck again, “far more indulgent than I was ever planning on being. So, the _least_ you can do is not complain, got it?”

The silence that followed was palpable. 

Nothing but the pulse of static, and Harry’s rapid breathing, equal part pain and undeniable arousal. It was infused into the continued throbbing of his pulse, practically visible through the skin, and in the dark squirming colours of his eyes, and the fact that he was licking his lips for the third time in less than five minutes. 

A curious response, but not exactly surprising one, after all, Tom knew better than anyone what Harry liked; what he wanted, deep down in the base of his stomach sat a feeling he wouldn’t have admitted to _anyone_, but it was obvious. 

_Harry wanted him._

Despite the other tempting places of exploration so casually available to him, Tom took a moment to let his eyes linger on Harry’s. To take a moment to watch the storm rage away in them, and to have the knowledge that he was the gatekeeper to the only available outlet. But Harry kept his mouth shut; he wasn’t going to say anything, that was obvious from the stubborn set of his jaw, and the heavy press of his molars firmly together. It was a shame, really, he’d rather liked the feel of Harry’s tongue when it was freshly sharpened.

But he could get over it. 

Instead, he continued to kiss at Harry’s throat, leaving what must have been a burning line right down the side, and whether Harry was conscious of it or not, he leaned into the touch. Tilting his neck at precisely the right angle to expose a long, _vulnerable_ strip of skin. “You know,” Tom said, his soft exhale causing quite the horripilation response down the back of Harry's neck, “I genuinely thought about killing you as soon as you got here; in fact, you’ll find some garrotting wire down the back of the chair.”

This time it was undeniable how Harry exhaled, his body sagging and his chest quivering slightly, and it couldn’t possibly be from cold, not with Tom’s own body so intimately pressed against his. Tom couldn’t help but smile against his clavicle. “But you see,” he continued, “I’ve been thinking about it, Harry, and I do think I missed you.”

Harry swallowed thickly. 

“I missed our little games.”

He was shaking all over now and breathing too fast to be at all natural, and Tom couldn’t resist trailing his hand up over Harry’s hip and under his shirt. The skin was warm and everywhere he touched it tensed up and quivered like a rabbit in headlights. It had been a long time. 

“Did you?”

There was the same tense silence, only punctuated by the quietening hum of the traffic outside and Harry’s low, trembling breaths. Tom lifted his head up until their faces were just inches apart and he could taste the warmth of Harry’s tongue. “Did you?” he repeated, slower now, the tone lower and softer, so that it smoothed over the air like the balm of a sea breeze on a hot day.

Finally, Harry nodded. 

“Good,” Tom said with a smile, “because we’re going to play one right now.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I know this is a little short, however, I have plotted out the next couple of chapters so they should be up relatively soon.

Tom continued to hold Harry still for a moment longer, one hand braced, flat, against the wall, the other still curled into Harry’s hair, pulling it back enough for his chin to be raised a couple of inches higher than natural; and didn’t that just make the prettiest picture? Like a deer, if he was being poetic, or a prisoner for execution, if he was being crude.

Five years ago, Tom would have been far more impulsive, not to mention, vulgar and brash. Five years ago, he would have cut Harry’s fucking throat right there and then.

Fortunately, he’d grown up. 

Nowadays, he could appreciate how gorgeous that throat looked _without_ a knife buried to the hilt straight through its carotid artery, and _without_ blood oozing down the length. No, these days, he’d learnt the value to be had in art, the simple worth of those smooth lines that shifted as Harry swallowed harder and kept his eyes clamped shut, employing a canine logic that if he couldn’t see Tom, then Tom couldn’t see him. 

He was wrong, of course.

Because animals are, for the most part, fucking stupid, and their logic was derisory.

But it was worth indulging Harry’s efforts, just to see the trembling of that pretty throat, and the catching of each breath on his tongue every time Tom twisted another curl of hair around his fingers, like thread wound around a spool. 

All of Harry was just quivering with that fine-tuned nervousness that mingled itself so symbiotically with anticipation; a heady mix always reserved for the state of hyperarousal. It made every line of muscle, and every stretch of ligaments tight like twisted coils of wire or wooden stakes buried upright in the ground. 

Tom exhaled slowly, licking his lips and reduced his grip a fraction, though the reaction was an immediate sagging of Harry’s shoulders, as though Tom had been the puppet-strings holding him up. But just seeing Harry look like that, with his jaw set hard but his lips soft and parted, in such a pretty display of strength and weakness, made Tom feel – hungry, and not in any way that the food left on the table could satiate. 

This was a deep _aching_, the sort you get from painful situations that leave a hole in your heart; over time the skin spreads, covering up the cavity, but it remains, a physical scar in Tom’s case, and it aches. Depending on individual constitutions, solace could often be found in seclusion or substances or sex, but none of those solaces quite suited him; they weren’t his colour or to his taste.

What Tom was looking for was far more dramatic – a private reckoning, of sorts. A thing so profound that it would spill out into the public sphere and would result in Harry too, having a hole inside him forever, just aching to be filled. 

Tom swallowed, he was getting distracted again, those were questions for later when Harry was more… pliant, and useable. For now, he just stepped closer still, listening to the sound of his foot on the softness of the carpet, and feeling the flushed heat of Harry’s skin.

“Where would you like to do this, Harry?” he murmured, his lips just brushing against Harry’s neck and making him shiver. It wasn’t an unreasonable question to ask, after all, everything would be made just that little bit easier if Harry was more relaxed, and he was most likely to relax where he felt safe. Where he was able to let go of that tension that was threaded so stubbornly through his spine and his jaw and his neck, and let himself be lax; become mouldable to Tom’s whims. 

But Harry was never that simple. 

“I didn’t realise I got a choice,” he hissed, his tone rough and his teeth still bared, but a slight hitch in his delivery loosened the potential impact somewhat. 

Tom rolled his eyes, “oh, please,” he said just as soft as before, “I’m not _that_ unreasonable.” As he spoke, Tom’s mouth wandered up along Harry’s neck to the slice of skin below his jaw. “In fact,” he murmured, pausing to nick at the skin with the edge of his incisor, “I want you to be as… comfortable as possible.”

At that, Harry swallowed tightly, his lips parting again, most like in consideration, after all, such a generous gesture was in his favour. 

Though having given him the choice, hardly made up for the definite _lack_ of said choice in this apartment. And, although Tom didn’t let his half-smile slip, or loosen his hold in any way, he desperately hoped Harry would pick somewhere here that was vaguely habitable and hopefully hygienic. The thought of having to do _anything_ in the sight of this frankly hideous wallpaper was nauseating, and just the potential that Harry might pick the kitchen just to fuck with him, was an uneasiness that couldn’t be ignored. 

“Bedroom,” said Harry eventually, interrupting the flow of Tom’s thoughts, “I want to be in the bedroom,” he said again, firmer the second time. Confident enough that Tom would have been concerned for his safety, _would_ be the operative word because he’d searched that room and there was nothing… untoward to be found. 

He breathed a sigh of relief. 

The bedroom wasn’t perfect by any means, but it was at least the most tolerable of the rooms available, not to mention, he’d already prepped it. Removing obviously offensive items such as a hockey stick. So, yes, the bedroom would do, and perhaps, from a rudimentary perspective, it was the most _natural_ place for this to happen. 

After all, why own a pleasantly large bed if you weren’t going to get some use out of it. 

And of course, bedrooms always contained the most, soft furnishings that would look just _lovely_ stained with enough of Harry’s blood that it wouldn’t wash out any time soon, no matter how much hydrogen peroxide he used.

Tom smiled against Harry’s throat before slowly pulling away and looking at Harry straight in the eye; they were still squeezed shut like he was pretending this was all a bad dream.   
“That’s a good choice,” Tom said soft and low, in a tone that was probably bordering on sultry, enough to have Harry shift uncomfortably against the wall. But there was no reason to be so awkward, it wasn’t like they hadn’t done this sort of thing before, albeit a long time ago now, but muscle memory was a surprisingly adept human mechanism.

People didn’t just forget how to fit themselves together. 

Particularly not when they were made so well to fit. 

With that Tom took a slight step backwards, snaking his fingers out of Harry’s hair as he did so, letting the space between them flood with coolness that must have felt alarming rather than refreshing because immediately Harry’s eyes opened, and, without thinking, he stepped forward, trying to fill it back up again with the heat of Tom’s body.

Tom just stepped out of his reach again. “Well, if you’re that eager, Harry,” he said with a smile that must have been illuminated by the faint lights of the city, blurring into something otherworldly, “you can lead the way.”


	12. Chapter 12

Harry gave him an expression that was somewhere between a scowl and a pout, but he stepped forward anyway and began to walk. As he did so, Tom let his hand ghost over the small of Harry’s back, the tips of his fingers pressing lightly against the spine. It was nothing more than the slightest pressure, but he still felt the moment that Harry realised there was someone else touching his body, and he tensed up; his spine straightened out and his shoulders pushed a little too far to be natural.

But Harry made no attempt to detach himself from Tom’s touch. Maybe the reaction, or lack thereof, was merely because he understood that however much he contorted himself, Tom would always find a way to touch him, or maybe, as Tom rather hoped, it was simply that Harry liked the feel of his hands. 

Either way, they walked like that the few paces to the bedroom door.

Once inside that smaller room, and with the light clicked on and the door shut behind, it was clear to see that the bedroom itself was as sparse as the rest of the flat. Just a bed against the far wall, and a chest of drawers directly opposite, a frameless mirror hanging above it and a stack of magazines in the corner. But all those single elements fed into the larger, more obvious, characteristic of the room: the space.

It wasn’t a large room and perhaps that was what made it so juxtaposing to see, just these large, empty expanses of carpet that ran like a moat around the bed, and every surface was devoid of anything remotely homely. The result was stark and cold, but it also formed a bud of anticipation in Tom’s stomach; the thought of filling this room with… something.

It didn’t have to be pleasant.

Nor did it have to be pretty.

But speckles of Harry’s blood ingrained in the carpet or little blotches the bed sheets or even a streak or two spread across the wall would really add that little something extra – a personality – to make concrete was what currently nothing more than a display in a furniture shop; ready to be picked up and moved at a moment’s notice. 

Tom’s thoughts were interrupted though, by Harry coming to a stop. He stood a little to the side form the door, pressed up against the wall as though he would melt through it and find himself released from this fever dream.   
“Well, here’s the bedroom,” he said stiffly, a hand gesturing to everything that Tom had already seen three times now; once when he’d arrived, twice when he’d prepared, and now a third time when he executing his intentions. 

“And there’s the bed,” Harry added, quite unnecessarily, given that it was the largest piece of freestanding furniture in here. _But_ if it made him feel better to gesture himself through everything that was going to happen, then Tom wasn’t going to object to it. 

For a minute or so they both looked at it. Staring at the undeniable cheapness that is a bed frame without a head or footboard, or any storage at all; simply a mattress placed on top of a wire frame and then pushed against the wall. Briefly, Tom tried to remember the reasons he’d decided to enact this entire performance here, instead of at his own, much better furnished and frankly all-around nicer apartment.

It was convenience, really. 

But he didn’t dwell on that thought for long though as Harry caught his eye, particularly the way he was standing there in the gloom, eyeing the window. “Well,” Tom said, stepping into Harry’s personal space, “why don’t you get on it, hmm?” he said, keeping his voice low and smooth; the very definition of safe and sensual, teetering tantalisingly close to seductive but never quite tipping into that territory. 

“And what if I don’t want to?” Harry snapped, still showing his teeth like a little puppy. “What if – ” 

Tom didn’t give him a chance to finish that sentence because he’d _already_ listened to enough of Harry’s whining today. Instead, he just shoved him hard against the wall; Harry’s skull making a thunking sound as he knocked it on the plasterboard, which was quickly followed by a sharp inhale as Tom’s hand dipped too low on his hip to be anything but indecent.

“Oh, you don’t have to do it, Harry,” Tom said, his mouth once again grazing over Harry’s ear, “in fact, I can do exactly what I want to you right here – up against the wall.” To emphasise the point, he pressed himself harder against Harry, crowding out the space and ensuring that the stacked column of his spine must have been pushing painfully into the cheap drywall, the imprint of the thin wallpaper probably leaving a pattern on the palms of his hands. “If that’s what you’d prefer, of course,” Tom added, pulling away just far enough to gauge the reaction. 

It was a good one as well. 

Harry’s eyes were all scrunched up again and his jaw ever so tight, and his mouth obstinately shut, even as the slightest flush crept up from under the collar of his shirt. But, even better, was the fact he made no reasonable attempt to push Tom’s hands away from where they were pressing at the inner seam of his jeans.

“I thought so,” Tom said, pulling away further so that it was once again Harry stuck against the wall with nowhere to go but back to him. “Now then,” Tom continued, still calm and controlled and hopefully with an air of aloofness that would hide the hum of anticipation that was spreading out under his skin, “why don’t you do as you’re told?”

Harry still had the audacity to glare at him, but he still peeled himself off the wall and made his way over to the bed. With another glare, Harry turned to face him, or, more likely face the door and try and think of ways out of this mess, which was unnecessary, really, because if he’d just relax then he might start to enjoy himself. 

With a deep exhale that seemed to echo out across the room, Harry climbed onto the bed and sat back, leaning on the palms of his hands in the middle of the duvet; it wasn’t a particularly provocative stance but Tom still found himself wetting his lips and letting his eyes wander properly. Despite the quality of covert surveillance pictures these days, none of them could quite capture that brilliant reality. They simply didn’t possess a way to place physicality into an image; and so, all the photos Tom had seen lacked that certain… hot-headed corporeality that Harry dappled in so liberally. 

But if Tom was distracted by the sight, then Harry was too. Despite his body shifting several times, his weight moving from one palm to the other and his feet twitching, Harry's eyes had stayed hooked on Tom’s own. And, even from this short distance, Tom could see how his pupils were shifting, examining every part of his body, as though all the answers to his questions were tattooed onto his skin.

For a while, they stayed like that. Harry with his head tilted upward as his hands pressed into the mattress, and Tom with his own head inclined ever so slightly downward and his own hands flexing, the knuckles cracking. They stared at one another in a silence that wasn’t quite comfortable, but nor was it disagreeable per se; it was simply a silence. 

Though they were soon joined by the sounds of spattered rain on the window; hardly a surprise, really, given that the clouds had been swelling with it all day. But still, the sound snapped Tom out of whatever thought process he was being caught up in and he blinked a couple of times.

“Well?” Harry said, his fingers curling into the duvet cover, twisting it and creasing the otherwise smooth surface. “What are you waiting for, Tom?” The tenaciousness of the tone was undeniable, each syllable biting, but not with the deathly cold that you might expect, rather, each was delivered with hot anticipation.

“Oh, nothing,” Tom said nonchalantly and taking the initiative of the moment to step forward so that his knee was braced against the mattress. With one more look at Harry, he climbed onto it with as much grace as you can muster when down on your knees with a knife in your back pocket. He could feel the edge of the blade awfully close to his skin, and his fingers were just itching to use it. 

Not to mention, the five others that were currently sitting in the second drawer of the bedside cabinet. 

But all in good time. 

For now, his main objective had to be ironing out all that tension from Harry’s shoulders, and easing the hostility out from under his tongue, until he was far more… receptive to Tom’s point of view. Though in Tom’s calculations, and he’d done many, that shouldn’t exactly take long. After all, most people were surprisingly slave-like to their own biology however much it hurt their brains when they realised what they’d done.

Perhaps that was a more accurate representation of the world though. After all, the ordinary citizen was no more controlled by the three estates of the Parliament, the Government and the Courts, than they were controlled by the personal estates of their heart, their brain and their genitalia. 

Why would Harry be any different?

So, Tom proceeded to move, on his hands and knees, over the duvet that was scratchy on his palms, until he reached the space between Harry’s legs. It was an overall uncomfortable stance, especially given that Tom wasn’t someone who typically crawled anywhere. To be perfectly frank, the action was demeaning and completely beneath him, but the way that Harry was looking at him might just make him change his mind on that. It was just an undertone hidden beneath the firm line of Harry’s mouth, one that said he liked what he saw, even if he wasn’t prepared to admit it. 

Harry kept that expression fixed to his features even as Tom got close enough that they both feel the warmth of the other’s skin. Even when Tom leaned in and let a hand scrape down the line of Harry’s t-shirt, that expression stayed, fastened to his face, though mingling with the shadows that were cast by weak shards of light, which were currently being emitted from the ancient flush mount light that was stuck to the ceiling. And the result was amusing, almost laughable if Tom was being honest, because what did Harry gain from grinding his teeth together like that? It wasn’t like the harsh set of his mouth and the glare in his eye was going to allow some hidden morality in Tom’s soul to suddenly bloom. 

If anything, it merely ruined what was otherwise a pretty picture. 

But Tom didn’t really have time to judge the aestheticism of pictures, well, technically he _did_ have time, but he didn’t want to waste it. Not when he had something as lovely as Harry sitting there with his messy hair, and ruffled breathing, and antagonistic glares that were designed to make Tom back off, but really only made him want to rile Harry up a little more. 

And he knew just how to do that. 

Without warning, Tom got his hands on Harry’s thighs and pulled him hard, so that he was lying flat on his back, with his arms spread to the side and a frankly adorable look of scandal plastered across his face. “What the fuck – ” Harry managed to splutter out, but Tom cut him off with his mouth; after all, he’d had enough of Harry talking for now.

Harry must have realised that he was getting annoying too, either that or he must have really liked what Tom was doing with his tongue because he actually managed to shut up for once. Which made a pleasant fucking change and actually meant that Tom had the opportunity to concentrate on kissing him, not to mention, exploring all the shapes and lines and curves that make up the bodies of other people.

Finding out whether Harry’s tastes had changed in the last five years, or whether the things that got him blushing red and begging for it then, still got the same reaction now. 

They did. 

Tom scarcely needed to use his hands before there was the unmistakable hitch to Harry’s breathing; just a short, sharp, inhale that made Tom leave his mouth and instead graze his teeth over the very edge of Harry’s jaw until his head tilted further back into a lovely curve, and his eyes were scrunched shut again.  
“You like that?” Tom murmured, framing it as a question because that always made people feel like they had the right to refuse, even if they didn’t. 

Not that the precise framing seemed to matter right this second because Harry was nodding regardless, and pressing his weight further into the mattress, apparently finally grasping the fact that this arrangement was going to benefit him significantly in the end. In fact, as long as he kept making gorgeously provocative sounds like that, Tom might just go easy on him, maybe even let him – 

The sound of a phone ringing interrupted that thought. 

And it wasn’t Tom’s because he wasn’t an attention-seeking idiot who didn’t know what the silent setting was for, which could only mean…

Tom pulled away from Harry’s neck, fumbling with the phone still in his back pocket, torn between ignoring the noise entirely and actively turning it off. Well, to be perfectly honest, his first thought was to throw the entire fucking phone out of the window, where it could have landed, many feet below on the concrete of the road and be promptly run over several times, because how many more fucking interruptions was he expected to have to endure before he finally got what he came here for?

He swallowed and pulled at Harry’s t-shirt to distract himself from the scratching irritation under his skin because he’d been finally getting somewhere. But now, despite the flush all over Harry’s face, he was back to wearing that wide-eyed expression that was underpinned by a good amount of self-loathing.

With a roll of his eyes, Tom looked down at the too-bright screen that stung his eyes, to see a name that he, unsurprisingly, didn’t recognise, but what was next to it certainly piqued his interest. After all, you don’t put a small pink heart followed by a question mark next to just anyone’s name. 

Sometimes, Harry was a little too obvious for his own good. 

Not that Tom minded on this particular occasion, he just smiled. “It’s Cedric,” he said, looking up quickly to gauge what would almost certainly be a merely momentary reaction. He managed to see it though: the catching of Harry’s lip between his teeth, and the sudden nervousness splashing through his eyes.

Well, that confirmed it. 

This was definitely the new almost-boyfriend. The one who was bringing Harry flowers that he could unintentionally kill, and of course, the one who was the final obstacle between him and Harry being able to re-assimilate their lives. Tom hadn’t intended to deal with him this early on, but when the universe presents opportunities, only fools find excuses to ignore it. 

Tom sat back, opening up the space between them for their new absent guest, although he still kept his spare hand placed firmly against Harry’s waist in a gesture of lazy possessiveness that didn’t go unnoticed. As Harry was currently darting his eyes nervously between the phone and Tom’s hand, waiting for him to make a decision.

And Tom made one. 

“Well, Harry,” he said, all soft and sweet, as he pressed the phone into one of Harry’s limp hands, and moved his hand so that his fingers could run over the inner seam of Harry’s jeans, “aren’t you going to answer it?”


	13. Chapter 13

For a moment, Harry just stared at him; his eyes blank and his mouth twitching into shapes but never quite finding a reply, and briefly, Tom entertained the possibility that Harry was just going to straight-up ignore him, but clearly he’d learnt his lesson from earlier because, after a moment, he answered. 

“Hey,” he said, surprisingly sure of himself given that he was definitely not in a position of power right now. In fact—Tom smiled, a plan, that was certainly nefarious in its intentions, beginning to bloom in the back of his head—Harry was very much _powerless_ right now, stuck between a stranger-friend on the phone, and him.

_Oh, this was going to be fun._

Still with his fingers tracing lightly over the seamline of Harry’s jeans, Tom leaned over to run his spare hand through Harry’s excuse for a hairstyle; playing at intimacy as he stroked two fingers over his ear and down his neck. “Put him on loudspeaker,” Tom murmured slowly, and right into Harry’s ear, and using his teeth and his tongue until Harry was contorting his neck and all but crushing his phone into the duvet, after all, he wanted to hear _exactly_ what this was about, given it was such an inconvenient interruption. 

Harry glared, those teeth clenched hard together again, but he complied. Immediately, one of those warm, friendly voices that Tom inherently distrusted came dancing through the speaker.  
“Hello Harry,” it said, all bubbly and entirely—_adorably_—unaware of what he was interrupting, “are you good to talk?”

Harry paused and looked at Tom and Tom nodded; after all, what was the point in answering and _not_ talking?

“Yeah, I’m good,” he said, keeping his gaze annoyingly firm on Tom’s hands, especially the one that had now moved to rest rather low on his hip; the palm pressing into the bone and the fingers dipping down to touch the crease of his thigh. Harry watched every micro-movement, which was frankly ridiculous because like this Harry was thoroughly ignoring Tom’s mouth, and that was an infinitely riskier strategy.

Because Tom could do an awful lot with his mouth. 

So: without much preamble, he leant down, pushing Harry back down and running his chin down the length of his torso, feeling how his breathing continued to pick up until it was a rapid, fluttering, thing that sounded like he was hyperventilating five minutes into a marathon. It was cute, in a way, made Tom want to do… something, but whether that was bringing him to the point of actual, medical, hyperventilation, or, putting a hand around his throat and shutting him up properly, he couldn’t quite decide. 

Both sounded good.

One after the other—a constant swinging between two states where Harry didn’t know whether he was living or dying. It would be interesting to watch; to see someone be brought back and forth like a pendulum between the only two real conditions of humankind: life and death. 

It would be gorgeous, but not when Harry actually needed to engage with someone else. That was a moment for just the two of them. So, Tom pushed the thought to the back of his mind—filing it under useful possibilities—and instead concentrated on more practical uses for his time.

Like pressing his fingers into all places, he knew Harry liked. 

Harry shut his eyes, scrunching the lids closed and controlling his breathing as he engaged in some mundane pleasantries with the man on the other end of the line—the one Tom didn’t really like for no reason at all, which could be jealousy, but he’d have to think about it before deciding. Regardless of the conclusion to that, he needed Harry to have the decency to open his eyes. 

After all, it wouldn’t do any good to do all this and _not_ have Harry witness every terrible second of his own weaknesses. So, as soon as Cedric started to actually answer Harry’s question about his current welfare, Tom reached up and stole a kiss. 

Not much of one, just a couple of brief seconds; just enough time to get one of his hands running up Harry’s thigh and the other against his cheek. It was just enough for Harry’s eyes to fling themselves open and for him to make a squeak of a sound that should have alerted anyone. 

But Cedric just continued talking and, wasn’t that just a gift-wrapped opportunity to steal away another kiss? This time so much slower, with Tom taking his time to ease open Harry’s mouth and coax appalling sounds out of it. One more octave lower and one decibel louder and Cedric would surely realise exactly what Harry was doing—it felt like a measure of personal achievement—and Tom pushed a little harder, dragging them both closer to something intense and thrilling and—

Cedric stopped talking, “Harry?” he asked, the slight twinge of concern apparent in the tone, “are you alright?”

“No—I mean—yes,” Harry said, with a tone that sat somewhere between acceptance and defeat, but they were the same thing, weren’t they? Though, apparently not to Harry, for he was now shoving Tom’s head away, as you might do with a cat whose affection is as zealous as it is inconvenient, his fingers knitting themselves into Tom’s hair and, unintentionally, forcing him back down, pushing his forehead against his t-shirt. 

Well, if that was what Harry wanted, then that was what Tom would give him.

Retreating like a Kraken back to the deep, his hands trailing after him and touching as much of Harry as they could on the way, Tom retracted himself to the small space between Harry’s legs. He felt Harry tense before he’d even done anything; his legs going stiff and his feet pressing into the duvet, though Harry made no attempt to shut his legs.

Interesting how easily acquiesce could be bought, wasn’t it?

But still, Tom sensed that a quicker approach was the least likely to result in permanent injury; to do things before Harry could react, and by the time he realised, make sure he never wanted them to stop. 

So whilst Harry was distracted with replying mechanically to _Cedric_ and whatever he was prattling on about, and keeping a firm eye on Tom’s left hand; Tom used his right to pull down the zip of Harry’s jeans and work his fingers through both the tough material of those hideous jeans and the basic, cotton, of Harry’s underwear.

The response? An initial strangled sound of shock that Harry played off as a cough, followed by an exasperated stare in Tom’s direction. Though it didn’t take long for Harry’s features to solidify into a sweet little frown. _Don’t you fucking dare_, he mouthed at Tom, apparently, finally, putting his brain to use.

But that just sounded like a challenge, didn’t it? 

Human psychology was strange like that. Tell a human that they can’t do something, and they are incensed with the dual desire to prove you wrong, and prove their own autonomy, and just because Tom recognised that he had those urges, it didn’t mean he was above them.

Quite the opposite in fact.

And that was how it came that he was using the flexibility of his tongue and the warmth of his mouth to do some truly appalling things. Not that Harry complaining, that much was obvious from the way he shamelessly wrapped his legs around Tom’s shoulders; his heels digging in harder and his hips stuttering more, the wider Tom stretched his mouth, and the lower he dipped his tongue, so greedily pulling Tom closer even as his not-boyfriend was talking to him.

“Look, I’ll jump right to it” Cedric was saying—at fucking last—“a signal failure has shut down entire the Northern line, and a taxi didn’t seem right, so I figured I’d stay the night with my dad, but…”

Tom was grateful he had something to distract him otherwise he might have snapped given how long it took this man to say anything. 

“…I have to pass your station, so I figured…” Cedric trailed off again, the confidence waning when it involved the feelings of someone else. “…Well,” he said eventually, “I figured I might as well ask whether you wanted to see me tonight?”

Oh, at least, it was worth it.

_In fact this was pretty fucking perfect._

The hope in Cedric’s voice—that charming desire to be noticed, to be loved—was painfully obvious to anyone with half a brain (which excluded Harry, then), and Tom couldn’t have planned it better if he’d be given the powers of a deity and released to play around with the lives of humanity. 

Tom looked up at Harry, and Harry returned the gaze. His face was _adorably_ flushed and the hand that held the phone up to his ear was trembling, but his jaw was still clenched and there was slight frown set into his features; his eyes shining with a silent command that Tom refuse the offer.

But where would be the fun in that?

Tom raised an eyebrow and shared a smile; “Don’t you want to see your friend, Harry?” he said, and Harry jaw tightened further, a mixture of irritation and frustration spilling out over his face, but he still complied because—maybe—he was understanding the alternatives would be worse.  
“Yeah, that’d be—great,” Harry said, the last syllables catching on the back of his throat as Tom dipped his tongue again, digging it into the places that made Harry twist his spine and nearly drop the phone more than once. 

Of course, this wasn’t particularly Tom’s preferred method of torture, the angle was always awkward, and he didn’t like not being able to see the expressions people made, not to mention, he didn’t like people’s hands in his hair—it was shorthand for controlling him—and in these moments he shouldn’t be the one being controlled.

But, in instances like this, where Harry was squirming furiously and pulling him closer—practically clawing at his hair with a ragged clumsiness that could only come from desperation—and breathing hard enough that it was a wonder Cedric didn’t call an ambulance, Tom couldn’t help but like it.

Though, like all his other good thoughts, someone interrupted. “Are you sure?” Cedric asked Harry—asked both of them—though now he was sounding a tad unsure, as though some part of his brain had picked up on something being inherently _wrong_, but he lacked the experience to work out what it was. 

“Yes—” Harry all but groaned, grinding down on the warm wetness of Tom’s mouth, “I—I mean— absolutely—I want—I want to see you,” he continued, breathlessly—shamelessly—as Tom continued to use his tongue for purposes probably not intended by humanity’s creators. 

Tom could hear the ear to ear smile in Cedric’s reply: “alright then—I mean, that’s great—I’ll be there in…” there was a pause as Cedric probably checked his watch, and which Tom punctuated with a particularly heavy drag of his tongue over Harry’s skin, that made Harry clamp his fingers between his teeth just to stop himself groaning down the handset “…about ten minutes.”

“Okay,” Harry said, or rather _choked_ into the microphone, “see you then.” 

As soon as the words left his mouth, Harry disconnected the line and practically slammed the phone down on the bed with a soft thud that didn’t embody the irritation it should have done. Tom had been planning to look up theatrically, eyes fixed on Harry and his mouth still slicked with saliva—perhaps he would even have made a comment about everything being alright, indeed, it was already on the back of his tongue—but before he could do any of that, he was smacked surprisingly hard in the face with one of the pillows. 

Which was pretty fucking rude given the circumstances. Especially given that he had been far more generous than he’d ever intended on being, and, quite frankly, it made Tom want to hold Harry down and make rambled apologies spill from his mouth for that little bit of insubordination.

But he thought better of it. 

Instead, he behaved _maturely_ and removed the pillow, casting it aside, and smiled as sickly sweet as he possibly could, his head resting on his palm and tilted to the side. Harry was glaring, but it didn’t hold any power, not when he was flushed red and quivering, trying to hold himself together with nothing more than a little moral masking tape.

Tom was about to speak, but Harry cut him off, “don’t you dare—don’t you fucking dare say anything, Tom,” he said with his pretty flushed cheeks and tight jaw that only seemed to emphasise the twitching of his mouth as the cool air seeped into the wide, embarrassingly open, space of his jeans. 

“You’ve done enough,” he added, still glaring. 

Tom continued to smile because Harry was so utterly adorable when he was pretending to be angry, and he was pretending because no one could like something, or for that matter someone, _that_ much one minute and claim to hate them the next. 

So, Tom smiled even as he unfolded himself, his hands at first resting one on each of Harry’s thighs. “But have I done _enough_, Harry?” he said, his hands beginning to slide down the length, “I mean...” Tom continued, letting his eyes sweep slowly over Harry’s body even as he leaned over him—pushing him down and smothering him with the heat of himself and the weight of his body—and kissing his neck, his jaw, his mouth because there’s nothing to stop him. 

Least of all Harry who was already back to scrunching up his eyes and putting teeth marks in his lip again. “I mean,” Tom repeated, with an obscene kiss here and an indecent kiss there, “you still want it, don’t you?” As he spoke, Tom pressed his knee down and watched as Harry’s features curled up a little tighter; this was what he liked, being able to see every intimate detail as it was scrawled over Harry’s face—being able to play god with people’s pleasure.

Harry half-mumbled, half-groaned an entirely incomprehensible reply, which was hardly a surprise given the circumstances, but it was still fucking thrilling to hear; to witness; to know that _he_ did that and no one else. 

“Go on, Harry, why don’t you tell me?” he said, goading because he could, “I’ve got the time, after all, I’m not the one _aching_ for it,” he continued, grinding down harder until Harry moaned into his mouth and decided it really was in his best interests to shut the fuck up. 

“That’s a good boy,” shifting back enough to admire his work, as an artist does their magnum opus when it’s half-way through completion. “Now,” Tom said, shifting again to put his mouth back on the corner of Harry’s jaw, “we’ve got ten minutes, and if you want to finish, I suggest you keep your mouth shut.”


End file.
